The Field and the Forest
by anolinde
Summary: Gúthwyn thought she would never love again, but Legolas proved her wrong. Now she must leave her family behind and make a new life with him at the colony, with its unfamiliar language and strange customs. Yet the most difficult challenge of all lies in the bedroom, where the shadows of her past resurface. Can she learn to trust Legolas with every part of her, especially the truth?
1. Planning

**Chapter One**

 _She took his hand and squeezed a promise of her own into his palm. "Yes. I will be your wife."_

* * *

Gúthwyn was still half-dreaming when she awoke, enveloped in a pleasant haze of warmth, and she tried to catch the fading images, certain of their importance. Something about the stars… her hair billowing in the wind… Legolas…

 _Legolas._ Her eyes flew open; the covers were thrown back. Legolas had returned from the east. He had professed his love for her, not Tauriel, and he had defied his father's wishes. They were to be married. She was to be married!

It was almost too much—her mind was racing faster than an _éored_ at full speed, grasping at memories from the night before. King Thranduil still did not approve of her, but in the end he had relented, even giving Legolas one of his mother's rings for the betrothal. And Elfwine, her clever, wonderful nephew, had been the mastermind of it all. She would have to find him the perfect gift for his upcoming birthday.

She would also have to tell Hammel and Haiweth.

Her bubble of excitement burst, punctured by dread; she had no idea what to say them when they both returned to Edoras in June, how to tell them that their lives were about to be drastically altered. Instinct warned her that she could not ply Hammel with the promise of an Elven library to explore, nor Haiweth with the temptation of brand new gowns—they would not be able to see past Legolas, who to them was still a menacing echo of Haldor. They would feel betrayed by her, and perhaps they would not forgive her.

 _Enough. You have well over a month to think of something, and for now you should be enjoying this time with Legolas._ Although she was still worried about the children, she forced herself to take several deep breaths and let the matter go—or at least push it further into the corners of her mind. Casting around for a diversion, she blushed when she recalled the taste of Legolas's lips.

She touched her own, as if searching for an imprint. With any luck, she would get to kiss him again soon. She had forgotten, or perhaps she had never known, how wonderful it could feel; her first kiss with Haldor had been irrevocably tainted by what had happened after. Yet even her daydreams about Borogor, she realized now, had never quite managed to capture the sensation…

She flinched, for she did not wish to think of these things. Borogor was never coming back, and it was no use feeling guilty for having moved on, for loving the mirror image of his worst enemy. He would have wanted her to stop mourning him, and she hoped he would not begrudge her the choice she had made, so long as she was happy.

As for Haldor…

 _No. Stop. You do not even know when your wedding night will be._

But there was no denying that there would be a wedding night, and she would have to walk into it just as she had walked into Haldor's tent so many years ago. Feeling suddenly queasy, she looked down and saw that her hands were shaking. She had enjoyed kissing Legolas, but what about lying beneath him? What about when he was inside of her, and there was no escape?

Unable to bear it, she shot out of bed. She would not do this, she vowed; she would not tarnish her first day with Legolas. Instead, she would put on a beautiful gown, one that perhaps he might like to see her in, and she would go to breakfast and forget that she had ever contemplated any of this.

A knock on the door interrupted her as she was opening her wardrobe. Thinking it was Legolas, she drew in a sharp breath, then scrambled to find a thick robe. "Who is it?" she asked, stalling for time.

Yet it was not Legolas who answered. "Cobryn. May I come in?"

She stopped, her hand on one of the hangers, and felt her shoulders deflate. She knew what conversation he had come to have, and part of her wished that she could delay it, but they would have to discuss their broken betrothal sooner rather than later. "You may," she answered, sighing.

He entered her room, shutting the door behind him. "I believe congratulations are in order," he said; she could not tell if his smile was forced.

"Thank you," she replied, unable to prevent a warm glow from stealing across her cheeks. "I do not know what Éomer told you…"

"All of it. Including the desire for discretion." Cobryn gestured to the door he had just closed. "Are you happy?" he asked, fixing his keen gaze back upon her.

"I am. But…" Unable to bear the guilt, she burst out, "It is not fair to you. I have led you on and now—"

"You have done no such thing," Cobryn said sharply. "We had an agreement, and moreover I was the one who proposed it. And one of the terms of our agreement was that you would have the chance to find someone who loved you the way that I could not."

He always had an answer for everything! "It is more complicated than that," she tried to insist. "We were going to… I mean, we were talking about children… and I saw the way you were with Elboron…"

Cobryn could not disguise his reaction to the mention of her nephew, at least not quickly enough for her—not when he inquired after Elboron's wellbeing every time she received a letter from Éowyn. For a moment, he smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle in his tunic; then he said, "I may not be as young as I once was, yet I am quite capable of finding another woman and siring children with her."

"But will you?" she asked sadly, knowing what the answer was. Sure enough, he did not respond. "Cobryn—"

"Do not worry about me," he told her. "Right now, Legolas is waiting to have breakfast with you."

Her heart lifted at his words, but she did not allow it to soar just yet. "I am sorry," she murmured, wishing her happiness had not come at the cost of her friend's future.

Although…

"Cobryn?" she asked as he waved away her apology. "Legolas said—of course, you are under no obligation—although I would very much like it if you would consider—but you may wish to remain in Emyn Arnen—"

"No need to keep digging, I think I have already found the question," Cobryn said wryly. "Yes, I will go with you to the colony, if that is what you are asking."

"Y-You will?"

"You sound surprised."

She flushed, color rising in her cheeks. "It is only that sometimes I feel as if I am dragging you all over Middle-earth!"

He shook his head. "Thanks to you, I have been an advisor to the king of Rohan, I have an open invitation to peruse the Prince of Ithilien's library, and I have dined at the table of the king and queen of Gondor. If your brother's charming wife had not interfered, I might even have had the chance to serve a couple of princes of Dol Amroth." She could not help but giggle at that. "And now you are offering me a chance to live among Elves. If we are to call this being dragged all over Middle-earth, then there is no one else to whom I would rather be tethered."

Her eyes watered; abandoning all reservations, she crossed the room and flung her arms around his neck. "I am so lucky to have you as a friend," she whispered.

As always, it took him a few seconds to return the embrace, but at length he answered, "And so am I."

They stood there, Gúthwyn trying not to spill tears all over Cobryn's shirt, until he said, "You should go see Legolas before Elfwine claims him for the morning."

She pulled back, stifling her laughter, and agreed. But what to wear? Her eyes darted to her wardrobe; as ridiculous as it was, she could not help but feel anxious now that she knew someone would be paying attention.

"I would try one of the blue gowns that matches your eyes."

Startled, Gúthwyn looked up, but Cobryn was already gone. With a rueful grin, she decided to take his advice. How much more perilous dressing was when one desired to impress!

 _Legolas does not care what I am wearing,_ she reminded herself. _He has seen me in travel-stained clothing just as often as a dress._ All the same, she was unable to resist a lengthier session with her hairbrush…

Nothing too excessive, however, for she was eager to see him. And when she hurried out into the hall, there he was: sitting at a table with Éomer and Elfwine, his head bent towards her nephew as he listened intently to the boy's chatter. She tried to approach quietly so as not to disrupt the adorable picture, yet he heard her footsteps and glanced up.

Elfwine swiftly marked his audience's distraction, but the wrinkles in his forehead smoothed when he identified the cause of the disturbance. "Auntie Gúthwyn!"

"Hello, Elfwine," she managed, her eyes still on Legolas. He had stood and was watching her with amazement, seemingly unable to believe his reversal of fortune. She blushed to see him admire her appearance, and she was glad she had followed Cobryn's suggestion.

Éomer did not trouble to hide his smirk. "Good morning, baby sister. Or shall I say good afternoon? For it is almost lunchtime."

"Good afternoon," Legolas said suddenly, as if he had just remembered how to speak. "I mean—good morning—"

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Trelan and Faelon, who must have arrived with Legolas the night before. Their backs were to her, but she had the distinct impression that they were trembling with silent laughter. "Good morning," she said to Legolas and her brother, at last reaching the table. "I am sorry I slept so late, it took me a while to fall asleep."

Legolas's eyes widened, but he quickly realized that she was not alluding to a nightmare, and he smiled. "You need not apologize. I myself had similar troubles."

She blushed at that, and decided it was in her best interests to sit down as soon as possible and wipe that knowing grin off of Éomer's face. The open space next to Legolas was tempting, but she did not think that it would be terribly conducive to discretion. Instead, she chose the one beside Éomer, whose amusement seemed to increase as he watched her.

"Auntie Gúthwyn, guess what?" Elfwine asked when they were all seated.

"What, little one?"

" _Uncle_ Leggy"—Elfwine's voice had dropped to an exaggerated whisper, but in his excitement it swiftly picked back up again—"has been teaching me Sindarin! Did you know that _mellon_ means 'friend'?"

Gúthwyn was finding it harder and harder to contain her joy. "I did know that, actually. I hope Legolas will not mind taking on another pupil."

She locked eyes with him, and felt a horde of butterflies descend into her stomach.

"Speaking of lessons," Éomer said with a faint cough, "Elfwine, it is time for one of yours. Come, I will bring you."

Elfwine looked rather alarmed. "Leggy, are we still going to practice with your bow today?"

"Yes, of course," Legolas assured him. "At the third hour past noon."

This was enough to satisfy Elfwine, and he allowed Éomer to steer him away from the table; as they left, Gúthwyn could have sworn her brother winked at her. Then they were gone, and she was alone with Legolas… well, not quite. Trelan and Faelon were still nearby, and everywhere she looked she saw servants attending to their chores. With so many potential witnesses, she realized in disappointment, there would be no possibility of even a chaste kiss.

 _Which is precisely why Éomer had no qualms about giving us privacy._

"Did you at least sleep well?" Legolas asked. He, too, was taking stock of their surroundings.

"Yes, I did." Perhaps she could reach under the table and hold his hand? Alas, he was too far away. "And you?"

"I had very pleasant dreams."

She flushed, hoping his dreams had not involved much more than kissing. Still, she could not dispel the pleasure she felt at learning that he thought of her even while he slept. "And now that you are awake?"

"Not quite as pleasant," Legolas admitted, lowering his voice. "It is difficult to be so close to you, and yet have to content myself with only speaking."

"And if that were not the case?" It occurred to her that she did not know how much leeway Elves had during the betrothal period, and that they might have to set some boundaries sooner rather than later. With no small amount of trepidation, she awaited Legolas's response.

But he said only, "I would walk with you down the main street, arm in arm for everyone in this city to see."

Her eyes widened. Was that all? Cautiously, she ventured, "And if we were unobserved?"

She braced herself, but his smile was as gentle as it had always been. "I might have to take the opportunity to kiss you again," he confessed.

In that moment, she thought her spirits would soar. So he had nothing improper in mind—at least, not yet.

 _Enough,_ she chastised herself.

Smiling back at him, she asked, "Would you like to go for a ride?"

He looked as if she could have suggested that they throw themselves into Mount Doom and he would have agreed. "Did you have a destination in mind?"

"Not really," she admitted. _Although any place where we will not have to worry about attracting gossip would be a start._ Mindful of what Éomer and the watchmen might think, however, she said, "Perhaps we could have a picnic? As long as we are within sight of the city walls, it does not matter where we go."

"Then lead the way," Legolas answered, grinning.

Of course, it was not so simple as that—she had to go to the kitchens and request food, and then she had to change into something more suitable for riding, including a cloak that would stave off any blustering spring winds. She tried to hurry, but by the time she reappeared in the hall with a picnic basket in hand, Éomer had already returned from his walk with Elfwine.

"Legolas says you are going to have lunch outside the city," he greeted her, scrutinizing her outfit. "Make sure you stay where Balman can see you."

"Yes, brother." She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Here she was, almost thirty-two years of age, and Éomer was still as protective of her as if she were a child. Yet she was not truly irritated, and she turned to Legolas with a smile. "Shall we?"

He offered to hold the basket, which she declined, and then he offered her his arm, which she accepted. They were almost at the door before she remembered something. "Legolas?"

"Yes?"

"How do you say 'thank you' in Elvish? I mean, Sindarin?" She cursed herself for the misstep—imagine someone calling Rohirric "Mannish"!

Fortunately, Legolas did not seem offended. " _Hannon le,_ " he said slowly, emphasizing the pronunciation. "Why?"

"Just a moment." She slipped away from him and went over to the table where Legolas's friends were still sitting. "Faelon?"

They both turned around at the same time, and suddenly she was grateful that Faelon had a bronze tint to his hair as opposed to Trelan's golden hues, for she had never had any trouble distinguishing between them. She supposed she would have to pay extra attention to such details once she arrived at the colony, for most Elves seemed to blend together—and they had an eerily similar quality of movement.

Before she could say anything, Trelan and Faelon leaped to their feet and bowed very low, startling her. Was she supposed to curtsy back? Surely not, assuming Legolas had told them everything and they were acknowledging her as their future princess? But perhaps Elves did these things differently?

She settled on inclining her head and hoping for the best. " _Hannon le,_ " she said to Faelon, marveling at how thick her tongue felt. In Westron, back on surer footing, she added, "My brother told me that you delivered the letter to Tauriel. I am exceedingly grateful to you."

His brown eyes lit up, and he responded with a string of Sindarin, none of which she understood, save perhaps something that might have been her name. After a slightly panicked pause, she gave a beseeching look to Trelan, who generously refrained from laughing. "I know Legolas has not had time to teach you much. But you seem to be catching on quickly."

Gúthwyn rather doubted that. Luckily, Faelon switched to the Common Tongue and said, "You are very welcome, Lady Gúthwyn."

"We will not detain you," Trelan added, his lips still quivering with mirth. "Otherwise we will make poor Legolas quite impatient."

Impatient was not a word she would have ever used to describe Legolas, but she herself was eager to be off, so she thanked his friends again and hurried back. She did not have to explain her absence—he had overheard everything, and his smile was a fine reward for her first attempt at speaking his language. "Now I am ready," she declared, linking their arms again.

They took Sceoh and Arod out onto the plains, and for a delightful stretch of time they simply rode, racing and chasing one another across the grass. Every once in a while their eyes met, and they would both start grinning; Gúthwyn soon found it difficult to stop. Eventually they slowed down, and she led him to a small hill from which they would have a view of the city—and Balman of her.

As they unpacked the food, a simple fare of bread, cheese, and apples, Gúthwyn realized that this was her first meal with her future husband. Legolas seemed to share her thoughts, for he shot her a conspiratorial glance and reached into his saddlebag. "Wine?" he asked, pulling out a bottle.

Her hands flew to her face. "I knew I was forgetting something!" She had not even though to ask the kitchen servants for mead. Sheepishly, she added, "Thank you. This will be a more than adequate substitute." So long as she watched how much she drank—she did not have the highest tolerance, and it would not do for him to see her inebriated.

Legolas's eyes shone with amusement, and he thoughtfully produced the cups she had also neglected to bring. "It is from Dorwinion, so be careful—it can be overpowering if you are not used to it."

Gúthwyn eyed the small amount he had given her, and decided to only consume half of it. "Do you always bring your own wine with you wherever you go?" she asked, trying to recall if she had ever noticed this on previous visits.

"Actually, Tauriel slipped it into my bag," Legolas answered, the corners of his mouth turning upward. "It appears she thought I might have a reason to celebrate."

"Then I shall add this to a growing list of things I must thank her for." Gúthwyn could only shake her head at her past foolishness. "I really did believe you loved her. And I was convinced that she loved you in return!"

"She told me there were… a few things she said which unintentionally gave you that impression."

"Oh, yes!" Gúthwyn blushed to recall their conversation, which had ended with her running away like a child. "She said that you had 'all the makings of a fine ruler' and… and something about your heart, and then she said that your wife would be a lucky woman! And now I realize she was putting in a good word for you, but at the time it was awful!"

Legolas laughed at her chagrined expression, though not unkindly, and soon he sobered. "I promise you, there has never been anything but friendship between Tauriel and I. Although it may interest you to know that my father once feared otherwise, because we were always together on patrols—he even went so far as to warn her that he would not allow me to marry a Silvan Elf." His face darkened; the memory had undoubtedly taken on a more sinister meaning in light of Thranduil's recent behavior. "But he was wrong. You are the only one I have ever loved."

Although she had surmised as much from the way he had kissed her the night before, hearing it spoken sent a shiver of pleasure through her.

 _And yet you cannot say the same to him._ The unwanted thought slid in like a knife between her ribs—what if Legolas expected her to repeat his sentiments? He had said they should be open with one another, and caught up in the moment she had agreed, but did that include telling him about Borogor? And there were other things… worse things…

She took a long sip of wine, hoping he would interpret the heat in her face as a blush. "I should like to see her again. Tauriel, I mean. I feel as though I got off on the wrong foot with her. Do you think… well, it might be too much to ask, but—assuming my brother does not mind—could your father be persuaded to let her visit?"

Legolas sighed. "She may no longer be the captain of his guard. Her fate was undecided when I left."

"What? Why?"

"She abandoned her post to bring Elfwine's letter to me. He did not try to stop her, yet nor did he give her permission to go. And it is not the first time she has disobeyed him."

Gúthwyn stared at him in horror. "I have cost her her job?"

"He may be lenient," Legolas tried to reassure her. "And it was not your fault—she would not have needed to find me if he had not interfered, as I reminded him before I left."

Gúthwyn still felt awful; she could not imagine Tauriel had much of a chance at retaining her captaincy, if she were dependent on King Thranduil's goodwill. "You said it was not the first time she disobeyed him—what do you mean by that?"

"She followed Bilbo and the Dwarves after they escaped our dungeons," Legolas explained. "She disagreed with my father that staying within our borders was the best way to face the Enemy's growing power."

"I did not know she was involved in those events," Gúthwyn said with interest. "I do not recall you mentioning her in the stories you told Elfwine."

"She was there," Legolas confirmed, his voice growing distant with memory. Coming back to himself, he said, "You will hear more about it someday."

Gúthwyn was content to wait—after all, she had a lifetime of conversations with him to look forward to. A quiet moment passed, in which she realized she was hungry for the first time in months and availed herself of some cheese. Eventually, she asked, "Is your father terribly angry with you? For wanting to marry me?"

Legolas's eyes clouded over, and he gazed unseeingly into the depths of his cup. "Yes and no. I now understand that many of his objections were not on the grounds I thought they were, and he concealed his true concerns until recently."

"His true concerns?" she echoed. King Thranduil had certainly made it clear that he did not consider her worthy of his son. What else could he have left unsaid?

"He fears losing me. He thinks that… that when your time has come, I will leave Middle-earth and never return. Just like my mother."

Remorse swept through her when she heard the pain in his voice. Death was not something she contemplated often, at least not her own, but she hoped to meet it when she was old and ready, leaving behind loved ones who would take comfort in the knowledge that she had not gone before her time. The children would be adults, with families of their own to care for; Elfwine and Elboron, so young now, would have heirs and perhaps even grandchildren.

Yet Legolas was not a part of this cycle—he would not follow her to the halls of her forebears. He was forever bound to the world, and she knew that she would never be able to comprehend what an eternity would be to someone who had lost their spouse. She could not help him; she could only hurt him.

"You told me once that you would not go until Aragorn died," she said hesitantly.

He nodded. "I will stay until then. I promised him."

"A-And after?" she asked, hardly daring to breathe.

"After…" Legolas exhaled, and at last he looked at her. "I think I shall need a rest."

She felt her heart stop as his meaning became horribly clear. "Legolas, I am so sorry. I never wanted—I never wanted to hurt you—" Such was her distress that she even pitied Thranduil. What had he done to her, after all, that was not in the hopes of sparing his son such a wretched fate? Would she have acted any differently if it were her own child?

"None of this is your fault," he said firmly. Reaching out, he brushed his thumb across her cheek, drawing away her tears. "From the moment I heard the gulls, I knew I would have to answer their call. Loving you may have hastened my destiny, but it was already sealed long ago. My father had hoped he could keep me in the forest, and I let him believe I had not been claimed by the Sea."

She was openly weeping now, and she took his hand and held it tight—as if she herself had the power to detain him in Middle-earth. "H-How can you bear it? How can you go on, knowing all of this will come to pass?"

"That is the doom of my people," he told her: "to persist as all else is worn away by time, as we ourselves fade and grow weary. Not until the world ends will we understand why this path was chosen for us."

His words were not in the least bit comforting, and she was beginning to fear that she had caused him immeasurable grief. How could he be so calm? How was he not railing, screaming against what the Valar had in store for him?

"I am sorry," he said suddenly. "It is a beautiful day, and here I am upsetting my bride-to-be. We should turn our minds to happier things."

She attempted to wipe the tears from her face, with little result. "I-I am not sure if I can, after that."

"Then I shall go first." He took an unused napkin and held it out to her; there was a slight twitch in his arm, as if he wanted to dry her tears himself, but then his eyes darted to one of the watch towers upon the walls and he reconsidered. "I have been giving some thought to our household," he began.

Gúthwyn dabbed at her face, at last achieving some semblance of composure. Another long sip of wine helped. "Our household?" Unlike Legolas, she had not even considered such a detail, and it startled her to hear him referring to it as _theirs_ —as if all the nameless servants who seemed to move in and out of thin air were now hers as well.

 _By the Valar, they are mine,_ she realized in alarm. _They are bound to me and I am responsible for them—and yet I have never even met any of them!_

Legolas sensed her disquiet. "I know you have not had enough time to start considering these matters. I have an unfair advantage over you, for while I was traveling to Edoras, it was all I could think of—how we would build our lives together, once I had repaired the damage wrought by my father."

"Then I am all ears," she said, "for I have nothing to contribute."

"Not yet," he corrected with a gentle smile. "But first: If Tauriel is unable to continue in my father's service, how would you feel about her entering ours?"

"That would be wonderful!" Gúthwyn's pulse quickened as she imagined the sparring opportunities—there was much she could learn from an Elf over six hundred years her senior. For the first time in more than a year, her fingers itched for Framwine.

 _Not that I would be worthy of even picking up a sword in her presence,_ she thought grimly. But no doubt Elfwine, at least, would be happy to see her more often.

"Would she be a member of your guard?" she asked, trying to figure out what Legolas had in mind. "Do you not already have a captain?"

Legolas chuckled. "I do, and Magol is very good at his job, but I thought Tauriel could be the captain of _your_ guard."

"My guard?" Her astonishment swiftly turned to alarm. "Oh, no, really, there is no need for that."

"Members of the royal family always have one," he reminded her; he did not seem surprised in the least by her objections. "Your brother is also well-protected."

"Yes, but—" Feeling increasingly flustered, she wondered if she and Legolas were about to have their first couple's argument. "I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. I do not need someone following me around all day, even if it is Tauriel."

"Just like we are being followed now?" Legolas asked, his eyes twinkling.

"What?" Gúthwyn nearly dropped her bread, and she twisted around in search of the Elves who were watching them. Then she realized that there were none, and that was his point.

"It would just be a formality," Legolas elaborated, contenting himself with a small grin. "My guards at the colony stand watch at night, are present when I receive visitors, and accompany me on extended travels. Tauriel would fulfill the same roles, were she to accept the position."

Gúthwyn bit her lip. She supposed that sounded reasonable. "Could it just be her? Or one other person, if it is truly necessary? For if we are going to be together, surely I can share your guard."

"That we can," Legolas conceded, still looking amused. "Shall we say three, then? One each for you, Hammel, and Haiweth?"

She could not deny that it would be a great comfort to have additional pairs of eyes on the children, especially where Haiweth was concerned. "Three it is."

"And…" There was a strange intensity to Legolas's gaze, one that made her pulse quicken. "Will you allow me to add more guards once we are given a child?"

"Yes," she breathed, too caught up in the idea to be embarrassed by how forthright they were being. Then she came back to herself, blushing as deep a red as the wine in her cup—which she hastily drained to conceal her embarrassment. "Yes, that will be acceptable," she agreed more calmly.

"Am I being too bold?"

"A little." She summoned the courage to add, "But I do not mind."

Was that color she espied in Legolas's cheeks? Yet it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he did not pursue the matter.

"Speaking of the household," she said, feeling as though it were getting rather warm for April, "I spoke to Cobryn. He will go with me to the colony."

"I am glad to hear it. I know his presence will be a comfort to you."

Gúthwyn chose her words carefully. "You will not mind, even after… the misunderstanding?"

"Of course not—although I will not deny that I used to envy him for his good fortune." Legolas's voice was low, his expression unguarded; she felt her breath catch as she beheld the emotion within. "It was a constant torment, imagining him at your side… kissing you…"

Surely the wine had affected her; that was the only explanation for her response. "Well, now you can kiss me whenever you want."

A shiver seemed to race through him—or perhaps it was a passing breeze—and for a moment she thought he would hold her to her word then and there, discretion be damned. But then he exhaled and said, "Not now. Someone might see us."

She could only imagine the shock poor Balman would receive if he saw his king's sister kissing their Elven guest! Biting back her disappointment, she replied, "Yes, I suppose you are right."

An idea struck her. She took the picnic basket between them and pushed it forward, simultaneously scooting over so that it was wedged between their legs.

"What are you doing?"

"We cannot kiss," Gúthwyn pointed out, "but we can still hold hands without anyone being the wiser."

Comprehension dawned. "Perhaps we should picnic out here more often," Legolas said, casually reaching behind the basket.

Gúthwyn laced her fingers in his. "Oh yes," she agreed. "We should."

They sat there, enjoying the view.


	2. A Secret Uncovered

**Chapter Two**

Cobryn paid little attention to his breakfast, a scrap of toast that had been too long over the fire; holding it in one hand, he perused a series of charts, pausing occasionally to make notes in the margins. Upon his return to Rohan three months ago, he had been allowed to resume his old position on the king's council. As grateful as he was for Éomer's generosity, he suspected the man had hoped it would not be a temporary appointment—that eventually Gúthwyn would succumb to his and Elfwine's exhortations to stay in Edoras.

But that was no longer the case. Now Gúthwyn would go with Legolas to a new home at the colony, and Cobryn would accompany her as always. For the most part, he was looking forward to it—how many mortals could say they had lived among Elves? Few enough, and perhaps he and Gúthwyn were among the last, now that they were all abandoning Middle-earth.

Yes, there would be plenty to keep him busy: a language to learn, customs to adopt, a new group of people to observe. There was much for him to do, and he knew he would embrace the challenge. Yet he could not help but wonder what might have happened if things had turned out differently…

 _There is no point,_ he chastised himself. _You were never going to be able to love her the way Legolas does._

He was glad for Gúthwyn, truly. His friend had been miserable for so long, he had almost forgotten what it was like to see her smile without reservation. But yesterday he had heard her laughing, at a simple joke from one of the maids no less, and a fine sound it had been—all because of Legolas. Could he, Cobryn, have given her such joy?

And yet…

 _And yet nothing._ He was still capable of having children; all it would take was a willing partner. Yes, it would have been easier with Gúthwyn, and he would not have had to pretend that there was anything more to the marriage than convenience. If he had truly wanted her, however, he would have wedded her long ago. She had practically begged him not wait, and he had held back, and now it was too late. Now it was his problem, not hers.

But he knew that there would be no other woman, just as there would be no child.

He shook his head, trying to find his place in the charts. He would have liked to be a father, but he had never needed it so desperately as Gúthwyn, and he had no right to complain when there were plenty of opportunities he could have taken to start a family.

"Cobryn?"

More startled than he would have cared to admit, Cobryn snapped his head up and saw none other than Legolas approaching the table. "May I join you?" the Elf asked, gesturing to the bench opposite him.

"Please." Cobryn made some hasty efforts to rein in the chaos of parchment strewn across the table, curious to learn what Legolas had come to discuss. Or rather, what about Gúthwyn he had come to discuss.

"I will not keep you from your work for too long," Legolas promised, sitting down. "I just wanted to thank you—Gúthwyn told me yesterday you agreed to join us at the colony. I know your companionship means a great deal to her."

Cobryn did not detect any particular emphasis on the word _companionship_ , and Legolas was regarding him with apparent sincerity, yet he could not help but wonder if Legolas harbored any resentment over his role in the misunderstandings of the past year. "It is I who ought to be thanking you," he answered. "Of all the twists and turns my life has taken, dwelling among Elves is not one I would have anticipated." Legolas chuckled, and he took it as a sign of encouragement to go on. "Will it trouble you? My presence at the colony?"

Legolas's eyebrows drew together. "Not at all. Why would it? Any friend of Gúthwyn is welcome in my home."

 _Well, I suppose he is in a position to be magnanimous._ Although Cobryn did not truly perceive Legolas as the jealous type—he had never seen the Elf so much as bat an eyelash when Gúthwyn spoke to a man. Nevertheless, if there were any lingering grievances between them, it was better to find out sooner rather than later.

"Because until recently, Gúthwyn and I had… an arrangement," he began delicately, "which caused no small amount of misery for you both. I would understand if you preferred not to have me underfoot in your household."

Legolas looked at him in surprise. "I would not hold a grudge against you for that. I will admit that I still do not fully understand your 'arrangement'—it is not the way among Elves—but I know now that you and Gúthwyn have only ever loved one another as friends. And if I had only acted sooner on my own feelings, none of this would have happened."

Cobryn inclined his head. Legolas had spoken earnestly, and Elves were after all very different creatures than Men; there was no reason to distrust him.

"And yet," Legolas continued after a moment, "you did have plans with her, and my return has upset them."

It was a hesitant, almost apologetic look that he gave Cobryn, but Cobryn suspected that those blue eyes were observing him rather closely. He wondered if Gúthwyn had said anything about being worried for him, for he could not imagine why it should matter to Legolas if he ever had children.

"Plans change," he answered. "That is their nature. I assure you, I can make others if I wish."

Legolas was far more adept at guarding his expression than Gúthwyn, yet Cobryn saw the same flicker of doubt pass over his features. Fortunately, he chose not to pursue the matter. "In any event, you have my gratitude. I know it will not be easy for Gúthwyn to adjust to her new circumstances, and she will be in need of a friend like you."

Cobryn nodded, but he made no reply. He feared that Legolas, his judgment perhaps clouded by his reunion with Gúthwyn, was underestimating the challenges that lay ahead of his bride-to-be. She who hated reading, was now to learn to do so in a foreign language; she who disdained finery, draped in it; she who still shied away from Elves, surrounded by them. To say nothing of the constant disapproval she would receive from Legolas's father and those who shared his views on mortals—that, Cobryn predicted, was a losing battle. Then there was the wedding night, and all the other nights after.

And once Gúthwyn's initial delight in her betrothal subsided, Cobryn had a feeling that no small part of it would turn to dread.

* * *

 _Dear Éowyn,_

 _I am writing to you with wonderful tidings—Legolas has returned and he and I are to be married! I know you and Éomer conspired to track him down in Dorwinion, and Éomer tells me that it was Faramir who delivered Elfwine's letter to the colony. I am therefore quite indebted to the various members of my family, and all I can give at present are my sincerest, most heartfelt thanks._

 _Éowyn, I can scarcely believe how happy I am. If anyone had told me even a week ago that this would be happening, I would have thought they were playing a cruel joke. I cannot tell you how incredible it has been to wake up for the past two days and remember that Legolas is here. He will be staying in Edoras until you and Faramir come to visit, and we will announce our betrothal then._

 _There is one favor I must ask of you. I am not writing to either Hammel or Haiweth with the news, for I wish to tell them in person. It will not be a pleasant conversation, and they—Hammel especially—will be very upset when they find out. Therefore, if you could please keep this information to yourself and Faramir, I would be grateful for your discretion. And perhaps, if the opportunity arises and it does not seem so obvious, you could speak kindly of Legolas to Haiweth?_

Gúthwyn paused for a moment, rereading what she had written. Then, after a short hesitation, she added, _In the meantime, I will not have any objections if you wish to bring her to Minas Tirith on occasion._

It felt underhanded, and in truth it was not likely to accomplish much, but she knew she would need all the help she could get come June. Sighing, she finished the letter with her usual inquiries about Éowyn's health, Elboron, and Faramir; she also asked after Nestadan and Nanaendis, whom she missed seeing on a regular basis.

When she was done, she headed out to the hall for breakfast. As usual, she was late, and only one table was still occupied. Elfwine and Lothíriel were bent over a map, obviously in the midst of a lesson, and Gúthwyn slowed as she saw them; she doubted Lothíriel would welcome the interruption.

"And who would come to trade with us?" the queen asked, her back to Gúthwyn. "What would they want, and what would we want from them?"

Elfwine was leaning so close to the map, his hair brushed against the parchment. "Gondor!" he said triumphantly, pointing. "They will come. They want our horses."

"Correct." Lothíriel's tone was perfectly measured; Éomer had once told Gúthwyn that Elfwine's instructors were under strict orders not to heap excessive praise upon the young prince. "And what would they offer us in return?"

"Weapons and armor."

"And what else?"

Elfwine's features screwed up in thought, but when he caught sight of Gúthwyn, his concentration broke. "Auntie Gúthwyn!" he called, waving her over.

Lothíriel's head whipped around, as if her son had espied an unwanted intruder rather than his aunt. Yet her expression was utterly still, save for a twitch in her jaw that was quelled with some effort.

"Good morning," said the queen, and if her greeting was rather stiff, Gúthwyn pretended not to notice.

"Good morning," she answered in kind, smiling at her nephew as she approached the table. "Has everyone finished breakfast already?"

"Yes, and we were just beginning Elfwine's lesson," Lothíriel informed her.

It was as clear a dismissal as any, and Gúthwyn was about to leave them to it when Elfwine added, "Mama says we are going to have a fair this winter, and lots of people will come to buy our horses because we have the best ones."

Gúthwyn's grin faded a little as she realized she would no longer be living in Edoras by then. "I am sure it will be wonderful."

"Maybe Leggy can bring the Elves." Elfwine glanced eagerly between Lothíriel and Gúthwyn. "Could you ask him to? Please? And…" He hesitated, then said in a rush, "Maybe Tauriel can come, too."

Melancholy was no match for an adorable nephew, and this time Gúthwyn's smile was genuine. "I will see what I can do, little one."

Too late, she realized that perhaps she should have consulted with Lothíriel first; but to her surprise, the queen was nodding, and she looked almost pleased. Gúthwyn supposed the fair would be a success indeed if it attracted the patronage of Elves, which might garner some measure of approval from Éomer—or at least his advisers.

"Auntie Gúthwyn," Elfwine said suddenly, "are you and Leggy going to stay here when you are married?"

The hope in his eyes made her swallow, and before she could respond, he continued, "Leggy can take Papa's room and then Papa can come back to—"

"Gúthwyn and Legolas will not be living with us," Lothíriel interrupted him, an angry flush darkening her cheeks. "Gúthwyn will go with him to the colony, where she will spend the rest of her days."

Elfwine looked as if he had been slapped, and Gúthwyn did her best not to glare at the queen—she could very well guess what had provoked such a reaction from the other woman, but such a blow ought to have been tempered, and Lothíriel knew it. "I will not be spending _all_ the rest of my days at the colony," she gently corrected. "Legolas and I will come visit you here, and sometimes you and your"— _father_ , she had been about to say, but she caught herself before it slipped out—"parents might visit us."

"But you will not live here? With us?" Elfwine pressed, his eyes filling with tears.

"Oh, little one, I am sorry," Gúthwyn murmured. Ignoring Lothíriel, she walked to the other side of the table and sat down next to her nephew, reaching out to place a consoling hand on his shoulder. "Legolas is a prince, and he cannot abandon his duties at the colony—just as you will have responsibilities here when you are older."

"But…" Elfwine's voice trailed off as he struggled to find a counter argument. "It is not fair," he at last protested. "Why do you always have to leave?"

"I wish I could stay," she told him, "but if I am to be Legolas's wife, then I must go where he goes. One day, the woman you marry will also have to leave her family to come live in this hall with you."

"But _why_?"

"Because it is the way of the world." Lothíriel's answer brooked no room for argument, and Elfwine had to content himself with glaring down at the table. "A woman enters her husband's household, and there are only very rare exceptions. Gúthwyn must follow the rules just like everyone else."

The unmistakable note of triumph in the queen's voice rankled, but Gúthwyn acted as if she had not heard it. "It will not be like the last time I left, little one. I will visit as often as I can, and you will always be welcome in our home whenever you and your parents want to visit us. And in between, I will write to you every week—every day, if you would like."

Elfwine did not seem convinced, but he managed to hold back his tears. At length, he asked quietly, "Will you send me and Mama more stories? Like you used to?"

"Yes, of course," Gúthwyn assured him, though not without a twinge of guilt—she and Legolas had long ago abandoned the tale of the Silmarils, and upon her return to Rohan she had lost the energy to come up with new material. Surprisingly, Elfwine had made no mention of it until today, which further heightened her sense of guilt.

"It would be best if we could resume Elfwine's lesson now," Lothíriel said, drawing Gúthwyn from her thoughts. "We have much to cover, and Elfwine has to finish before he can play with Onyveth."

After many years of experience, Gúthwyn knew when to give way to her brother's wife. Therefore, with some reluctance, she kissed Elfwine's brow and promised him that they would talk again before dinner. Then she left, sighing when she heard Elfwine ask Lothíriel if she had wanted to stay in Dol Amroth.

Since Legolas and his companions were nowhere in sight, Gúthwyn assumed they had gone to the archery range; and with little appetite for breakfast as yet, she decided to wander down the main road. It was surprisingly warm outside, with only the occasional breeze to make her draw her cloak tighter, and she was in no rush to find Legolas. Undoubtedly he would be enjoying this time with his friends, and she did not wish to be a distraction.

As she walked, she marveled at how different things seemed now that her misery was lifted—the sky bluer, the sun brighter, the people cheerier. More than once, she stopped to chat with an acquaintance, and even the occasional remark about her prolonged absence from the training grounds did not trouble her. In fact, she heard herself saying that perhaps she would return sooner rather than later.

She was almost at the gates when she saw Aldeth, who looked to be running errands for her father. Tentatively, Gúthwyn waved; she had never been certain what, if anything, Hammel had told Aldeth about his quarrels with her. But when Aldeth waved back, the only change in the girl's expression was a faint blush, which Gúthwyn hoped was a favorable omen. She slowed down to talk.

"Good morning, Aldeth. How are you?"

"Very well, my lady, thank you." Aldeth sank into a curtsy, her honey-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, and Gúthwyn took the opportunity for a discreet examination. When she had left Rohan nearly four years ago, Aldeth had been a pretty slip of a girl; now she was a young woman of twenty years, with lovely green eyes and a light dusting of freckles across her nose. Her arms and hands looked strong, no doubt from helping her father at the smithy, and Gúthwyn could not help but notice that she had promisingly wide hips.

"How is your father?" she inquired as Aldeth straightened. Magar was one of the few residents of Edoras whom Gúthwyn rarely encountered, as he hardly ever emerged from his shop. He left most of his purchases and deliveries to Aldeth, and he avoided feasts at the Golden Hall, preferring solitude.

"He is well, my lady, thank you." Aldeth hesitated before adding, "He misses Hammel's assistance, of course, but he knows that one does not pass up a chance to learn from the Dwarves. I think he is jealous, though he will never admit it."

Gúthwyn felt her smile freeze on her face. Casually, so as not to arouse suspicion, she asked, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, all those odd jobs he has done for us over the years. Sweeping the floors, cleaning the molds—my father keeps trying to pay him, but he only accepted a couple of times that I can remember, and lately not at all. Yet my father hopes—"

She broke off, her cheeks turning pink, but Gúthwyn scarcely paid attention. Hammel had been working for the blacksmith? Since when? Surely not the entire time he had been interested in the trade…

Her face pale, she affected nonchalance. "Oh, yes—I am forgetting—how long has it been?"

Aldeth shook her head. "Since we were little, I can barely remember…"

"Right, yes," Gúthwyn agreed absently. She wondered that it still hurt to learn Hammel was concealing something so important from her—after all, when was the last time he had so much as told her how his day had gone? But to uncover a deceit of this magnitude, which had existed for years, and moreover been abetted by a parent who should have alerted her… and why had no one ever mentioned seeing Hammel so often at the forges? Surely someone had placed an order while he was cleaning the shop?

She almost forgot that Aldeth was still there, waiting for a response. "Well, I should not keep you from your business," she managed. "Please, give your father my regards."

Aldeth curtsied again, her eyes lowered. "Thank you, my lady."

Still half in a daze, Gúthwyn began walking away; then, struck by a sudden thought, she paused and turned around. "I suppose… you have heard from Hammel recently?"

Aldeth nodded, looking both pleased and embarrassed by the admission. "Yes, my lady."

Gúthwyn swallowed. She knew no letter would come from Helm's Deep bearing her name. "Does he… Do you think he seems happy?"

If Aldeth thought the question strange, she hid it well. "I believe so, my lady. He says he is looking forward to his return, but I know he is excited to be learning so much from the Dwarves."

Gúthwyn smiled faintly. "Yes, I can only imagine. Thank you, Aldeth. I ought to be…"

Just where she ought to be going, she did not recall; but Aldeth did not linger, and she was spared the awkwardness of fumbling for the rest of her excuse. She watched Aldeth walk back up the main road, her cloak wrapped tight against the wind, and wondered: Did Hammel share his secrets with Aldeth? Had he revealed to her the source of the darkness Gúthwyn saw in his eyes, or had he carefully hidden that from her as well?

She stood there, lost in her troubled thoughts, until she was nearly knocked over by a group of children playing tag.


	3. Sindarin Lessons

**A/N:** As the title of this chapter indicates, there is going to be some Sindarin ahead! I've been making use of multiple dictionaries, but please let me know if anything is incorrect. (Also, I totally made up a term of endearment, but shh, just pretend.)

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

"You seem troubled."

Gúthwyn glanced up from her bread and saw Legolas watching her concernedly. A picnic blanket was spread before them, full of food that she had only picked at, and although she had done her best to be cheerful it was obvious that her attempts had not passed muster.

"I found out something about Hammel today," she began, and then she sighed and told Legolas about her conversation with Aldeth, how the woman had inadvertently let slip that Hammel had been working for her father for years. "I suppose it makes sense," she remarked when she was done. "He bought a book once, and I never could figure out where he had gotten the money… But how could I have been so ignorant of what he was doing? It was mortifying to stand there a-and listen to Aldeth chattering on about it as if everyone in the city already knew. I felt like such a fool."

"Why would he keep this from you?" Legolas inquired, frowning. "There is nothing shameful in such an arrangement, is there?"

Gúthwyn shook her head. "Not at all—I would have encouraged him if he had confided in me. He used to get teased by the other boys, and I would have been glad that he had somewhere else to go."

"And the blacksmith never said anything to you?"

"No! Which I find shocking. I hardly ever see him, and Éomer says he is a man of few words, but I am sure he would want someone to inform him if his daughter were—were—assisting a seamstress or something! I will certainly be having a word with him."

"And Hammel?" Legolas asked, reaching the heart of the matter.

Gúthwyn's anger faded, and she looked at him in despair. "I will when he returns, though I cannot say what the point of such an exercise would be. He will not apologize for what he has done, and he will likely find a way to resent me for finding out, never mind that I ought to have learned it from him." She sighed again. "Perhaps I should not even bother. It will only make things worse when he hears that you and I are to be married."

"I am still worried about how he might react," Legolas said, but he did not voice again his desire to be present when the children were told; it was gratifying to know that he respected her decision, even if he did not agree with it.

"I am worried as well," she replied, shivering despite the warmth of her cloak. "I cannot imagine that he will ever come around to the idea."

"He might." The suggestion seemed more for her benefit than something Legolas actually believed. "You once thought very differently of me."

"What did Raniean say when you told him?" Gúthwyn asked suddenly. Raniean was another whom she doubted would welcome such news. "I notice he did not accompany you here."

The sorrow that passed across Legolas's face was answer enough. "He and I are no longer friends," was all he said.

 _That_ Gúthwyn had not expected, and her eyes widened. "Legolas, I am so sorry. Truly, you do not have to avoid him because of me—I have already caused you enough trouble."

"None of this was your doing," Legolas insisted. "If Raniean cannot put aside his prejudices long enough to display an ounce of civility towards the woman I love, then he has chosen hatred over our friendship, and I can no longer make excuses for him. I have seen the way others have treated you over the years, and under no circumstances will I tolerate such behavior at the colony. You have every right to be comfortable in your own home."

She was quite moved by his words, and again she felt as if she had done nothing to deserve such kindness. "But would it not be better to forgive him? If we are to be living in the colony, and our paths crossing? I do not mind, really…"

"Raniean stayed behind in Eryn Lasgalen," Legolas told her. "He will not be returning to the colony."

"Oh." Gúthwyn could not pretend to be overly upset that she would not have to interact with Raniean on a regular basis, but Legolas had always counted the proud Elf among his closest friends, and their parting must have been grievous to him. It pained her to know that she was in some way responsible for his suffering, however indirectly.

He seemed to read her thoughts. "Do not blame yourself. Raniean has made his choice, and I mine."

Behind the picnic basket, undetectable to anyone watching from the city, Gúthwyn reached out and squeezed his hand. After a moment, endeavoring to change the subject, she said, "You know, I have quite forgotten where we were in the story of the Silmarils."

Legolas looked at her in surprise, but at least her words had the intended effect, for a few seconds later he gave a regretful smile and admitted that he was also at a loss. "We may have to start over," he added teasingly.

"I hope we can figure it out before it comes to that." But she was grinning, because now he could tell her the story ten times over and their marriage would still be young. She could spend whole days listening to him, and nights…

She imagined lying in his arms, hearing only his heartbeat and the gentle murmur of his voice as she drifted into sleep. It was a thought as pleasing as it was frightening—the idea that she might find some joy in her marriage bed. And it was not something she ought to encourage, lest she forget the price of such contentedness.

Quickly, so as to conceal the grim turn her musings had taken, she said, "Yet perhaps we could try again soon? I am woefully behind on my stories for Elfwine, as he reminded me today."

"And we would not want that." Legolas's sly smile made her giggle, and she again wondered just how someone could be so handsome.

"No," she agreed, trying not to blush, "we would not."

He let go of her hand, and she was astonished by how jarring the separation felt to her—like losing one's reins mid-ride. But it was only so he could set aside the remains of their meal, and as he worked he said, "I have no desire to deprive Elfwine of a bedtime story. Yet if he can wait until tomorrow, I had something else in mind for today."

Gúthwyn's gaze darted to the tower where she knew Balman was standing. "And what would that be?"

Once everything was in the picnic basket, Legolas sat down again, but this time across from her instead of beside her. "I thought I could start teaching you my language," he said.

Gúthwyn straightened, both eager and anxious. The sooner she learned Sindarin, the better, yet she could not help but dread the inevitable embarrassment of her attempts to speak Elvish, and she feared Legolas's opinion of her would sink once he heard her butchering his native tongue. "Well," she said valiantly, "I already know 'mellon.'"

Legolas grinned. "Then we may as well begin there. When you are at the colony, you will often hear someone saying _mellon nín_ : 'my friend.'"

" _Mellon nín_ ," Gúthwyn repeated, cringing at how guttural her voice sounded next to Legolas's.

"There," he said encouragingly. "But before you can call someone _mellon nín_ , you have to introduce yourself to them. If I were meeting you for the first time, I would say: _Mae govannen, hiril Gúthwyn. Im Legolas Thranduilion._ "

It was all very pleasant-sounding and incomprehensible. "You said my name, your name, and your father's name?"

"'Well met, Lady Gúthwyn. I am Legolas, son of Thranduil,'" he translated.

She wrinkled her nose. "So 'lady' is…"

" _Hiril_."

"And 'lord' is…"

" _Hîr_."

She tested out both words, adding Legolas's name after _hîr_. "It sounds much better when you say it."

"Well, I do have a nearly three thousand-year head start," he acknowledged, his eyes twinkling. "But there is also beauty in your language, which many an Elf would struggle to replicate."

"There is?" Gúthwyn echoed dubiously. She had overhead more than one Gondorian commenting on the accents of her people, and none of their assessments had been flattering. Éomer had told her how, after the War, most of them had assumed him to be a barbarian and were astonished to learn that he could speak Westron as well as any of them.

"Aye." Legolas looked surprised that she had asked. "When you are hearing it for the first time, it sounds… stern, perhaps, even forbidding. But when you listen closely, it takes on a deep, rolling quality—almost like the land itself."

She felt a fierce surge of pride at his words, though she had never made a conscious choice to speak in such a fashion—it was simply what she, and everyone in Edoras, had known from birth.

"It is interesting," Legolas continued, studying her in a way that made her blush. "When you speak the Common Tongue, one would never guess that you are from Rohan. But just now, when you were repeating words in my language, I could hear your accent coming through."

"Oh—I am sorry, I did not realize."

"Nay, there is nothing to be sorry for," Legolas hastened to assure her. "In fact, I… I find it very agreeable."

Gúthwyn's face was so hot, a kitchen servant could have prepared toast on it. By the Valar, Legolas was insistent upon complimenting her! She hardly knew what she had done to merit such praise.

Trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground, she asked, "How do you say 'Rohan' in Sindarin?"

" _Rochand_."

"That is not so different," she said, pleasantly surprised.

Legolas smiled. "Indeed, that is where the name 'Rohan' comes from."

She had not known that, either; she supposed Cobryn could have told her if she had ever thought to ask. But it was a comforting bit of familiarity in a strange new language, all the more so because it had come from her home.

"What about 'horse'?"

"That would be _roch_ — _rochand_ translates to 'the land of horses' in the Common Tongue. And 'horse lord' is _rochir_ , which you might also recognize."

Gúthwyn thought for a moment, but nothing came to her. "I am not sure I do," she admitted, embarrassed.

"It is very similar to 'Rohirrim,'" Legolas explained.

"Oh!" She felt like an idiot for not having made the connection herself, and she was relieved to hear no trace of impatience in Legolas's voice. Hoping he would not think her even more of a simpleton, she asked, "Would you call me a _rochir_ , then? Or would it not work because I am a woman?"

It was a moment before Legolas responded, and when he did, his words were filled with tenderness. "I would not call you _rochir_ ," he said, "but not because you are a woman; rather, I would call you _rochir nín_."

It took her a few seconds to figure out what he meant, but when she finally fit the pieces together, it required all her self-restraint not to lean over and kiss him in front of the entire city.

* * *

Unfortunately, Gúthwyn's self-restraint prevailed, and there was no kissing. Nor could they linger outside of the city, lest anyone on the ramparts wonder why a simple picnic was taking so long. With great reluctance, therefore, she and Legolas closed the basket, refolded the blanket, and made their way back to the gates.

They joined the crowds on the main street, where people were chatting with one another as they went about their daily business. Aldeth hurried by, her head bent as she carried two buckets of water; Elfhelm's nephew Heahtor raced past with a group of friends, shouting and laughing; the washing circles were full to bursting as the women exchanged news and gossip.

Gúthwyn observed it all, painfully aware of how much she had taken it for granted: in only a few months, she would be treading the forest paths at the colony, where the Elves moved in silence and most of the time you could not even see them. She wondered if she would ever come to know them half as well as the people of Edoras, and she feared that she would not.

"Auntie Gúthwyn! Leggy!"

The shout came from a distance, and she looked over to see Elfwine emerging from the street where Lebryn and Celewen lived. Onyveth appeared an instant later, all scrawny limbs and dirty clothes, her dark blonde hair tucked haphazardly into a fraying braid.

"Hello, Elfwine and Onyveth," she said as they approached with the bounding steps of children about to go off on an adventure. "What are you two up to this afternoon?"

"Wymare found a _snake_ ," Elfwine answered—Onyveth was too busy staring at Legolas. "He says it ate a rat!"

"I hope you will content yourself with observing the creature, and not interfering with its meal," Gúthwyn said, knowing that the last thing anyone's parent needed was a snake bite.

"Of course not!"

Elfwine made a proper show of looking scandalized, but Gúthwyn had a feeling she had just spared the snake at least one or two pokes with a stick.

Onyveth was silent during this exchange, and Gúthwyn saw that she had not yet finished examining Legolas. Smiling, she asked, "Is Wymare still giving you trouble in class, Onyveth?"

Blue eyes swung in her direction, glowering. "Wymare is a stupid boy."

"I am a boy," Elfwine reminded her crossly.

Onyveth gave him a withering stare. "But you are not a _stupid_ boy," she said, and just like that the brewing quarrel was diverted: Elfwine was appeased by this assessment, and he evidently had no desire to defend Wymare.

Bolder now, Onyveth's gaze returned to Legolas. "How old are you?"

Amused, Legolas answered, "I have walked this earth for nearly three thousand years."

By the way Onyveth blinked at him, Gúthwyn could tell that this number was incomprehensible to her. Eventually she retreated into more familiar territory and asked him if his ears were really pointed, with a skeptical tone that reminded Gúthwyn of Lebryn.

"Yes, they are," Legolas confirmed, pulling back his hair. "You can touch them, if you would like."

Onyveth declined, but there was significantly more awe in her voice, and Gúthwyn saw her hand reach up to tug at her own ear.

"Come _on_ , Onyveth, everyone else will see the snake before we do!"

Elfwine's dire prediction had the intended effect on Onyveth, and with one last look at Legolas she raced after her friend. Gúthwyn tried to keep an eye on them, but the children were soon lost in the crowd.

Legolas chuckled. "Is that Elfwine's companion whom I have heard so much about?"

"Yes, that was Lebryn's daughter. In more ways than one." The only thing Onyveth seemed to have inherited from her mother was her eyes; in all else, she was the stubborn echo of her father. "Apparently he is teaching her how to throw knives."

"Indeed?" Legolas's eyes sparkled. "That must be why she reminds me of someone else I know."

Gúthwyn made to elbow him, but at the last second she pulled back; it was, perhaps, too familiar a gesture for the crowded street, and instead she contented herself with smiling at the ground. When she glanced up again, she had the strangest feeling that she was being watched—and soon she espied Hildeth, standing just outside of the nearest washing circle and scrubbing a cloak, her keen gaze fixed on Gúthwyn.

She waved at the elder woman, hoping to conceal her guilty start, although she suspected that not much slipped past those wizened eyes. Hildeth smiled back and motioned for them to join her—others might have considered it improper to beckon so imperiously towards their king's sister and a visiting Elven prince, but Hildeth inspired uncharacteristic obedience in many, Gúthwyn included.

"Lady Gúthwyn, it is a pleasure to see you out and about," Hildeth said as she and Legolas drew near. "And a good thing it is, too, for you have been looking far too pale lately."

"It is a pleasure to see you also, Hildeth," Gúthwyn replied, avoiding the well-intentioned criticism of her complexion. Clearly Hildeth, like many in Edoras, had noticed her withdrawal over the past few months, but there was no need to dwell on that now. "I believe you have already met Prince Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen?"

For the second time that day, Legolas was subjected to a thorough examination. "Indeed, I have," Hildeth finally said in Rohirric; "though, even if I had not, it would be impossible to miss him." She jerked her head towards a nearby cluster of women who at first glance appeared to be quite absorbed in their washing, yet upon closer inspection were devoting rather more attention to Legolas.

"Yes—er, well." Gúthwyn was inclined to be sympathetic towards the women's plight, not that she wanted Hildeth to notice.

"I remember meeting you long ago," Legolas said to Hildeth. "It is a pleasure to see you again."

Hildeth gave him an appraising look. "Handsome and well-mannered," she remarked, this time in the Common Tongue; Legolas accepted the compliment with a smile and a twitch of his lips. Casting a mischievous glance at Gúthwyn, Hildeth returned to Rohirric and asked, "And how long is he to be visiting?"

"Oh, er…" The truth would lead to more questions—at the very least, it would raise eyebrows—but if she lied and claimed Legolas was only staying the week, the falsehood would reveal itself almost immediately. "I do not know," she finally answered, praying her cheeks did not look as red as they felt. "That is between him and Eomer."

"I see." Hildeth's expression said she saw a lot more than that—or maybe Gúthwyn was being paranoid. "Well, you just enjoy those picnics."

"I-I will, thank you." Gúthwyn knew that she and Legolas had made no attempt to hide their outings, but it was still disconcerting to hear Hildeth mention them. Were the watchmen talking, or had Hildeth seen them walking down to the gates? She had assumed no one was paying attention, or leastways not close enough, to a couple of innocent-looking picnics; now she wondered if two in as many days had been indiscreet. But Hildeth was probably just making conversation, she could not possibly have guessed…

And then Hildeth winked at her.

Gúthwyn froze, for there was no way to misinterpret _that_ signal. Hildeth laughed when she saw her expression. "Child, I have known you since you were an unruly little thing tagging along after Prince Théodred, Béma rest his soul. But I would not worry," she added, lowering her voice as Gúthwyn's eyes widened—"I daresay few will think to make the connection until you are ready. And they will have no help from me."

"What was that about?" Legolas asked a few minutes later, after Gúthwyn had dazedly translated their farewells.

"Perhaps we should wait a few days until our next picnic," was all Éomund's daughter would venture until they reached the safety of the Golden Hall.


	4. Negotiations

**Chapter Four**

"And then Wymare told Onyveth she was stupid, and then Onyveth told Wymare _he_ was stupid, and then she hit him with her book and then they both got in trouble." Elfwine finished his dinnertime story with a broad grin, clearly expecting his audience to be as thrilled as he was by its violent conclusion.

"And where were you in all this?" Éomer asked, and Gúthwyn watched him exchange a glance with Lothíriel. She thought this had been happening more often since their return from Minas Tirith: her brother acknowledging his wife, however briefly.

Elfwine seemed to have noticed as well. Beaming, he replied, "I was looking at a map of Gondor. Master Hereward wants us to learn all the provinces, but I know them already."

It was a convincing show of innocence, and Éomer let it pass without comment.

"Uncle Leggy, can we practice with your bow again tomorrow?"

Legolas smiled at the young prince. "Of course. So long as it does not interfere with your lessons."

"Elfwine, you must not make too many demands upon our guest's time," Lothíriel reminded him, throwing Legolas an apologetic glance.

"It is no imposition at all, I can assure you," Legolas told her.

Having formed one set of plans, Elfwine was apparently quite eager to make another, and he swiftly reasserted control of the conversation. "Papa, can we go riding soon?"

"Not tomorrow, but perhaps the next day," Éomer answered. "We can go after you are done with your lessons."

Elfwine clapped his hands together, then turned to Lothíriel. "Mama? Will you come, too?"

The indulgent grin slid off of Éomer's face, and Lothíriel hesitated before replying, "I think it would be better if you and your father had some alone time. Perhaps he can tell you his stories about fighting in an _éored_."

Gúthwyn assumed that would be enough to distract her nephew, but Elfwine was not to be swayed. "Papa says you need to exercise your horse more."

Éomer looked as if he had developed a sudden headache, and Lothíriel's eyes flashed as they settled upon him. "Does he?" she inquired, her voice as cold as frost.

Blithely unaware of the danger he was courting—or perhaps intent on baiting it—Elfwine added, "He says it every time we go to the stables. So will you come with us?"

Across the table from Gúthwyn, Legolas was making a thorough study of his goblet.

"Elfwine, you need not repeat everything I tell you," Éomer began through gritted teeth, but Lothíriel spoke over him.

"Well, your father is quite correct. I suppose my only excuse is that I have been rather busy this past year, managing all of Rohan. But there is no better time than the present, is there? So yes, Elfwine, I think I shall accompany you and your father. The day after tomorrow, we decided?"

Even Éomer knew better than to refuse her outright. He did, however, say quickly, "We can make an outing of it. Gúthwyn, Legolas, the two of you must join us."

Gúthwyn and Legolas exchanged glances, each attempting to conceal their alarm. Yet before they could respond, Elfwine declined the invitation on their behalf. "No, Papa, Auntie Gúthwyn and Uncle Leggy cannot come. They need _alone time_."

It was such a perfect imitation of Lothíriel that Gúthwyn almost lost her composure, and she hastily pretended to drop her fork so that she could duck under the table and hide her expression from the others. When at last she emerged, Éomer gave her an ungrateful look.

"I think Elfwine is right," she managed, not daring to even glance at Lothíriel. "Perhaps Legolas and I will go for a walk instead."

Legolas's lips twitched as he agreed. "That sounds wonderful."

Elfwine turned back to his parents, looking quite pleased with himself. "Maybe we can have a picnic!"

"If we are going in the afternoon, it will be past lunch, and then you will spoil your appetite for dinner," Lothíriel pointed out.

"Yes, there will be no picnic," Éomer said, his irritation palpable. "And it will not be a long ride."

Some of the light in Elfwine's eyes faded. "But we have not been on a ride in forever!"

"We went on one just last week," Éomer reminded him.

"But not with _Mama_."

Gúthwyn could tell Éomer was weighing the temptation of arguing against the stubborn set of his son's jaw. She wondered if it would be best to make some excuse to leave the table—Legolas would follow suit, allowing the discussion to be continued in private.

"We will talk about this tomorrow. _Tomorrow_ ," Éomer said, cutting off Elfwine's protests. "Now it is time for you to go to bed."

Gúthwyn saw the wheels turning in her nephew's head. Throwing a tantrum was not likely to earn his father's favor, and it might even jeopardize the ride altogether. Reluctantly, he made his farewells to the adults at the table.

"Auntie Gúthwyn?" he asked just before he left, and she smiled to see him watching her so solemnly.

"Yes, little one?"

"Are you going to come back to the training grounds soon?"

"Maybe," she hedged. "Why do you ask?"

"Well… because Uncle Leggy and I are going to practice tomorrow, and Mama and Papa and I are going on a ride the day after tomorrow, but I am not doing anything with you," he explained, his voice so laden with concern that she nearly laughed.

"That is very thoughtful of you. I am sure we can find something to do together."

Looking relieved, Elfwine bade them all a good night and scurried off to his room. No sooner had they heard a door shut in the distance than Éomer stood and asked, "Legolas, Gúthwyn, will you join me in the council room? There is something I would like to discuss with you."

Lothíriel's lips thinned, and without further ado she announced that she would retire for the evening. Éomer barely acknowledged her, and she stalked away with rigid shoulders.

"Mead," Éomer said, as if he had not noticed. "I shall have some brought over for us."

Gúthwyn darted a glance at Legolas, who gave her a sympathetic smile. As uncomfortable as it was to watch her brother and his wife squabble over the remains of their marriage, she tried to put it out of her mind—because now, if she were guessing Éomer's intentions correctly, it was time to discuss _her_ marriage.

And indeed, once they had removed to the council room and the servants had brought the mead, Éomer waited only until the door was shut behind them before he began: "I am glad to see the two of you happy again."

Legolas thanked him with a smile; Gúthwyn could only blush.

"I know right now you must only have thoughts of spending time together," he continued, "and while I would fain distract you from those joys, I do wish to have a conversation about the betrothal period, the wedding, and the terms of the marriage. Especially since I expect there to be differences in our people's customs."

Gúthwyn had been squirming at the thought of having to conduct these necessary, yet potentially mortifying negotiations, but Éomer's last words jolted her memory. "Legolas said that Elves use rings, as in Gondor."

Legolas nodded. "We exchange them when we announce the betrothal. At the wedding ceremony, we return the betrothal rings and replace them with new rings."

"That can be managed well enough," Éomer said. "Where shall the wedding be held?"

Gúthwyn straightened; she had not even considered the matter, having in fact assumed that they would say their vows beneath this very roof. Now, however, she realized that this was not likely to be the case—after all, she would be joining Legolas's house. It was only logical to have the ceremony at the colony. And yet the thought of being married so far away from home made her feel incredibly lonely, even as she sat within reach of her brother and her soon-to-be husband.

"Gúthwyn?"

At first she wondered if she had missed something, if Legolas had told Éomer the wedding would be at the colony and they were only waiting for her approval; but then Legolas smiled, and she saw that he had perceived her thoughts. "Would you like for us to have the ceremony here?"

Relief swept through her, swift and sudden as a summer storm: he understood. "Yes," she admitted, glancing at her brother. "If it is not too much of an imposition…"

"Nonsense." Éomer, too, looked gladdened by the decision. "Of course it will be here."

Gúthwyn's throat was thick with tears as she thanked her brother, and she did her best to swallow them back. Turning to Legolas, she smiled at him through watering eyes and asked, "Are you sure?" He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers, and she drew in a shaking breath. "Thank you—this means a great deal to me—"

"I know," he said softly.

The only thing that stopped her from kissing him on the spot was Éomer, who cleared his throat and asked, "How long shall the betrothal last? Legolas, do Elves have any… requirements that we should know about?"

"The betrothal period is usually a year," Legolas answered.

Gúthwyn's eyes widened, and she glanced anxiously at Éomer. "A _year_?" It seemed like an eternity to wait, and it was also time she did not have if she wished to conceive sooner rather than later.

"No doubt a year passes quickly for an Elf," Éomer said, "but in the Mark it would be considered strange to have such a long engagement, and it might raise questions. Most couples here are betrothed for only a month, and any delays are usually because the man is a Rider and away from home."

"A month is too short," Gúthwyn interjected, stiffening. She was not ready for her wedding night to happen so soon—it would be May in just a few days, and their betrothal would be announced in June. Surely she could have more time to prepare.

"I agree," Legolas said, and she nearly slumped over with gratitude. "But I think, perhaps"—he smiled at Gúthwyn, catching her off-guard and making her scramble to return the gesture—"we need not wait an entire year, when already we have waited for so long."

"What do you propose, then?" Éomer inquired. Gúthwyn found herself holding her breath; she was still queasy from her brush with panic, and it was all she could do to prevent any of this from showing in her expression.

Legolas considered for a moment. "What about at the end of summer?" he asked, turning to Gúthwyn.

Five months. Her anxiety ebbed a little, though she knew it was only a postponement of the inevitable. Still, at least she did not have to think about it just now. "That sounds perfect to me," she replied, managing a smile. She could not help but feel oddly pleased that he had sought her approval before Éomer's.

"The end of summer it is, then." Éomer drained the last of his cup, and Gúthwyn wondered if she was imagining the odd, almost uncomfortable expression that skittered across his face. With a gruffer voice than usual, he said, "There is one more matter…"

"Yes?" Gúthwyn prompted him when he fell silent.

"Sister, perhaps you should give us a moment," Éomer said stiffly.

Gúthwyn stared at him. "What? Why? This is my marriage, I do not understand what you could possibly have to discuss with Legolas that I cannot hear as well." She was determined not to repeat the same mistakes she had made before—Legolas was not Elphir, and if Éomer thought she would let him negotiate her future while she shied away from any involvement, he was quite mistaken.

Éomer looked rather displeased, but a glance at Legolas garnered no support; Legolas was evidently bewildered by the suggestion of sending Gúthwyn away. At length, Éomer sighed and said, "In the Mark, it is generally understood that certain… liberties may be taken during the betrothal period, so long as the woman's honor is not compromised."

Gúthwyn's cheeks burned when she realized what he meant. "Is this necessary?"

There was no room for argument in Éomer's tone. "As your guardian, it is my duty to protect you. Your reputation is already precarious enough as it is."

"Well, thank you so much, _brother_ ," Gúthwyn snapped, switching to Rohirric to disguise the tremor in her voice. "As long as my _reputation_ is safe. Because that ship has not already long sailed."

"And will you start disappearing with Legolas behind closed doors while the servants gossip? Is that what you want?" Éomer raised his eyebrows.

She recoiled. "Of course not!"

Legolas had been watching them in confusion, but upon seeing Gúthwyn's distress, he cleared his throat and said, "Éomer, I will not pretend to have fully grasped your meaning—yet whatever these 'liberties' are, it is clear that the mention of them has upset Gúthwyn, and I hope you know me well enough to be assured that I have no desire to cause her suffering."

Éomer initially seemed at a loss for words, and Gúthwyn supposed there had been no need to spell anything out with Imrahil; discreet, delicate language would have been the order of the day. At length, he said, "I will speak more plainly, then, since it appears that Elves do not have the same concerns. As you are surely aware, my sister has been the subject of several foul rumors, utterly lacking in merit, concerning Hammel and Haiweth's parentage. Her conduct, and yours, must therefore be above reproach. While there is no harm in hand-holding or kissing, and I am prepared to occasionally look the other way should you wish for a private moment, being alone together for an extended period of time is out of the question. In other words, my sister is to remain untouched before the wedding."

There was an unmistakable emphasis on the word _untouched_ , and Gúthwyn all but squirmed in her seat. It was not quite a lie, because Legolas had not yet bedded her, but nor was it the truth. She was not a virgin; on her wedding night, she would be bringing spoiled goods to the bedroom. She wondered if Legolas would know immediately, if his heightened senses would detect her impurity. Would it be better to admit what Haldor had done to her before he discovered it on his own?

The mere idea sent nausea through her in frantic pulses; she suddenly could not breathe, and for a moment her surroundings dimmed. When at last the roaring in her ears subsided, she could hear Legolas telling Éomer, "…different indeed. For Elves, the union of two bodies is what seals the marriage; it cannot exist outside of marriage, nor can marriage exist without it."

Still trying to regain her composure, Gúthwyn absorbed little of what Legolas was saying, but Éomer's eyebrows had nearly disappeared beneath his hair. Before he could answer, however, Legolas continued, "Yet I understand that it is not this way for humans, and I do not wish for Gúthwyn to have to endure more scrutiny than she has already, so I will adhere to these rules—although I can promise you that they are quite unnecessary among Elves."

Éomer glanced at Gúthwyn, then frowned. "Are you feeling well?"

"What? Oh, no—I mean, yes—" Éomer and Legolas's concerned looks were making her feel ill again, and she had to take several breaths before she continued, which she was certain they both noticed. "I am sorry, I was lightheaded for a moment, but now it has passed. I really ought to go to bed earlier tonight… Is there anything else we need to discuss?"

Éomer shook his head. "You should get some rest, you are quite pale."

"Y-Yes, I will," Gúthwyn promised. "In fact, I will go now—"

Legolas stood. "Please, allow me to accompany you back to the hall."

She resisted the urge to bolt; what she really wanted to do was retreat behind the walls of her room, where she could try to breathe again without anyone watching. Since this would only arouse the others' suspicions, however, she agreed to walk with Legolas. To her surprise, Éomer did not follow—she supposed this was what he had meant by being prepared to occasionally look the other way. Still, she wished he had not chosen this opportunity to demonstrate his leniency, for now she had no shield from Legolas's scrutiny.

"What did Éomer say to upset you?" he asked gently. "When you were speaking in Rohirric?"

Gúthwyn hesitated—she feared he would see through her in an instant if she denied that anything was amiss, but she did not want to have to explain why Éomer's words had rattled her so much. That would bring them dangerously close to Haldor, and she thought she would be sick if she had to talk about him.

When she did not reply, Legolas slowed down and detained her with the lightest touch. "Gúthwyn, please," he murmured. "I wish only to understand. Whatever he said made you quite agitated, and even now I can see that you are still affected."

He was not going to let this pass; she would not be able to change the subject, nor excuse herself and slip away. Yet how could she begrudge him his curiosity when he was acting out of concern for her? She was admittedly a novice at marriage negotiations, but she imagined it did not bode well for the future bride to look miserable throughout the proceedings.

Spurred by guilt, she whispered, "It is not Éomer's fault. He… He was only telling me what I already knew. He just said that… that people are always going to gossip about me, no matter what I do."

"Not at the colony," Legolas vowed. He reached for her hand but stopped after glancing down the hall: they were not far from the throne room, and it would be all too easy for a servant to espy them. "My people will neither heed nor repeat any rumors about you. And not because you are their princess, but because it is abundantly clear that there is not a single grain of truth to those despicable lies."

She swallowed. What would Legolas think of her if he ever found out just how wrong he was?

"Gúthwyn? Is something else troubling you?"

She could hardly stand to listen to his voice—it was so gentle, so free of remonstrance, and she deserved none of it. "N-No, nothing," she lied, fighting back tears. "I-It is just th-that I do not like being r-reminded of what has been said about me."

Legolas was about to answer when they heard footsteps out in the hall, coming dangerously near to the passage. Fortunately, they paused and turned around again, fading into the distance, but Gúthwyn knew it was only a matter of time before someone else appeared.

"We should go," she said, clearing her throat. "I-I will be fine, truly. Shall we have lunch again tomorrow?"

"Yes. I would like that." Before she had time to react, Legolas bent down and kissed her brow, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I am sorry for tonight," he told her as he pulled back. "It grieves me to see you like this. You have done nothing to merit the pain others have caused you."

He spoke with such conviction that she could almost believe him. "You have always been so kind to me," she whispered, drawing closer. Just one kiss before anyone could see, a fleeting brush of lips…

But it was not to be. Just as she was standing on her tiptoes, the door to the council room opened and Éomer stepped out. He assessed the situation in an instant, yet his expression remained neutral as he called out, "Gúthwyn, you should be going to bed."

She had no choice but to bid both of them a good night. Alone in her room, she took several deep breaths, relieved that her panic had subsided during her talk with Legolas. But her past was not gone forever—it was only being held at bay, and sooner or later she would have to decide what to do with it. How much she would tell Legolas, what he might intuit on his own… and her growing sense of unease at the thought of keeping secrets from him.


	5. Cessation of Hostilities

**Chapter Five**

"Papa, where are we going today?"

Éomer glanced up from his desk and saw Elfwine standing at the door, his small hands working to tie the laces of his cloak. "Not far," he said, watching as some of the boy's eagerness dimmed. It pained him to deny his son a longer ride, and if it had been just the two of them he would have allowed Elfwine to pick the direction—but it was not just the two of them. "We will follow the river, and we will turn back after an hour."

"But—"

"Are you ready?"

Elfwine reluctantly nodded, and Éomer retrieved his own cloak from the back of his chair. "Is your mother waiting for us?" Not that he needed an answer—he knew better than to hope Lothíriel would change her mind after their argument.

If only Elfwine had not repeated his comments about her horse! And if only he had not been so careless as to make them in the first place. He was not even seriously concerned about Winterheart's welfare, for Lothíriel had at least arranged for one of the stablehands to exercise her regularly. But he had gifted Winterheart to Lothíriel after their wedding, and for some reason it rankled that she would not see to the mare personally… though why he had allowed this to overrule his good sense, he could not say.

When Elfwine nodded again, he repressed a sigh. "Let us go, then."

He heard her voice before they entered the throne room: a soft laugh, the kind she used when entertaining guests. And sure enough, there she was with the guards he had chosen to accompany them that afternoon, urging his men to help themselves to the mead and provender that she had presumably ordered the servants to lay out. She was clad in a soft green riding dress, one he had bought for her in the early days of their marriage, and a grey cloak covered her shoulders like a spring mist. She had tied her hair back in a braid, but a few dark strands had escaped, and some of the younger Riders seemed to find this particularly enchanting.

Irritation swelled within him, and he made sure to note each of the offenders' names. They had no right to gaze at their queen so openly, and as for _her_ … why, it was almost as if she were encouraging it! Since when had such a spread ever been laid out for so unremarkable an occasion as an afternoon ride? He cursed himself for not coming out sooner—he would have put a stop to this.

Next to him, Elfwine's eyes lit up. "Food!" he cried, as if he had not eaten in months. Abandoning his father, he raced ahead to join the group. Éomer watched as he planted himself at Lothíriel's side; she smiled down at him, then produced a small cake that she had been keeping out of the way. She murmured something that looked like "Save some for later," and Elfwine, who appeared to have been on the verge of devouring the whole thing in one gulp, contented himself with a small nibble.

Lothíriel looked on approvingly, then glanced up and noticed Éomer. After a brief hesitation, she turned her palm towards him, and through the press of Riders between them he saw that she had also saved him a cake.

"My lady, Hunwald did not hear your joke about the oliphaunt…"

For a fraction of a second, Lothíriel was distracted; her eyes moved to the guard clamoring for her attention, and she gave a polite nod of acknowledgment. By the time she turned back to Éomer, it was too late. Feeling increasingly ill-tempered, he stalked over to Gamling, who stood some distance apart from the others. At least the captain of his guard, and a couple of the older men, had had the sense not to linger at Lothíriel's table. (Though Elfhelm, he noted mutinously, was not among them.)

"I told them to be quick about it," Gamling said by way of apology, "but…" He shrugged; they both knew his cautions would have stood little chance against the queen's charms.

"Well, I hope they have had their fill," Éomer said sourly. "Let us be off."

As he had expected, Gamling's abrupt command sent the younger men scrambling for their helmets, and Lothíriel was left to direct the servants to clear away what remained of the food. Motioning for Elfwine to join him, Éomer led the others out into the bright afternoon.

"Papa, did you know that the Sindarin word for 'cake' is _cram_?" Elfwine asked as they filed down the stairs.

"No, I did not."

"Leggy told me. And also the word for 'food' is _mann_ , did you know that?"

"I did not."

"Auntie Gúthwyn says I know more than her already," Elfwine reported, amused. "But I want to know _everything_. Could Master Hereward teach me Sindarin? When Leggy is gone?" The corners of his mouth drooped at the prospect of the Elf's departure.

"I do not believe Master Hereward is familiar with the languages of Elves," Éomer replied evasively; he could guess well enough where this conversation was heading.

"Then could someone else teach me? Please?" Elfwine gazed up at him, wide eyes and earnest supplication. "I really want to learn it."

"Elfwine, there is not enough time in the world to teach you all the things you _want_ to learn in addition to all the things you _must_ learn," Éomer said, though he did not mean it as a rebuke. His son's curiosity never ceased to amaze him, and he was certain that this trait belonged to Lothíriel, for he could not remember ever being so inquisitive as a child. With Elfwine, it was not enough to know what something was, or how it had come to be; he wanted to know _why_ , and ever he found the question Éomer could not answer. "Already you have asked to learn how to throw a spear, sail a boat, track a wolf, and stitch up a wound. And now you wish to acquire a third language?"

Elfwine blinked at him. "But you know how to do all those things, Papa. Except sail a boat, but Grandfather can teach me how to do that. And besides, I _really_ want to learn how to speak Sindarin. Mama says—" He caught himself with a worried look at Éomer.

They were almost at the stables, but Éomer brought them to a halt—his heart twisted to hear Elfwine censoring himself, and he wondered if he did the same around Lothíriel. "What does your mother say?" he prompted.

"Er…" As if fearing Éomer would change his mind, Elfwine hesitated and then plunged recklessly ahead. "She says sometimes people in Gondor speak Sindarin, and that Uncle Faramir learned it when he was my age. And she also says that a very long time ago an Elf married Grandfather's great-great-great-great-great"—he took a deep breath—"great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, and so Grandfather has some Elvish blood, and so does she, and so do I, and therefore I should learn Sindarin."

Éomer had wondered when he was going to trot out the legend of Mithrellas and Imrazôr of Belfalas. "I will think about it," he promised—if left unchecked, Elfwine would produce as many arguments as his mind could conjure, and he had a vivid imagination. "Yet right now, you must focus on the lessons that will one day help you rule this kingdom."

To illustrate his point, he pulled open the stable doors. Between the horses' whickered greetings and the activities of the stablehands, Elfwine was quite distracted, and the subject of Sindarin lessons was forgotten as he scurried over to the stall where Felara, his pony, awaited.

The guards were following them inside, and Éomer glanced back; he expected they would all be saddled up and ready before Lothíriel emerged from the Golden Hall. With an unpleasant jolt, he saw her bringing up the rear, deep in conversation with Hunwald.

"I always heard stories about the tree shepherds growing up," Hunwald was saying, his voice unusually animated, "but I never thought they were real."

"In Dol Amroth, we were told about sea serpents bigger than warships," Lothíriel answered, "and I certainly hope they are not real."

Hunwald's laughter died beneath the look Éomer gave him, and he hastily muttered something about needing to check on his horse. Lothíriel stared at Éomer in astonishment, but he did not apologize—partly out of defiance, partly out of anger with himself for once again letting his temper get the best of him. He could only imagine what Gúthwyn would have thought if she were here, and he made a note to apologize to Hunwald later.

"I have had your horse saddled," he said gruffly, not knowing how else to break the silence. He did not add that he had done it himself; earlier he had come into the stables to groom Firefoot, and out of habit he had moved onto Winterheart afterwards, not realizing his mistake until it was too late to abandon the task without drawing notice.

For a moment, he thought she would retort that she was perfectly capable of saddling Winterheart herself, but all she did was nod and thank him, her polite tone a far cry from the warmth she had poured into her conversations with his men. Well, that was of no importance, he reminded himself, marching over to Firefoot's stall. Better Hunwald than him! After everything she had done to Gúthwyn…

But it was another memory of his baby sister that came to mind, and not one in which she agreed with him. _"I care not what it costs you," she hissed at him, "nor how sick it makes you feel, but you are going to start treating Lothíriel the way you want Elfwine to learn how to treat his future wife. You are going to do this for your son, or you are not half the man I thought you were._

He had not wanted to listen, but later that night, lying awake with Elfwine sniffling beside him, he had felt the beginnings of shame creep over him. He knew it was not kingly, the way he behaved around Lothíriel—yet how else could he treat the woman who had tormented Gúthwyn for so many years? What was he supposed to do when forgiving Lothíriel meant betraying his sister, but not forgiving her meant hurting his son?

Soon the horses were ready, and as they led them out of the stables Elfwine made a point of inserting himself between his parents. "Papa, Mama, are we all going to ride at the front? Together?"

He looked so hopeful that there was nothing for it but to agree, even though Éomer had been planning to subtly deploy his men as buffers between him and Lothíriel. Yet Elfwine's reaction put an end to these designs—he straightened in the saddle and grinned so widely that Éomer and Lothíriel's eyes instinctively met, sharing in their son's pleasure.

Éomer was the first to look away. "Onward," he called to his men, raising his hand; and as one, they sprang into action, urging their horses down the road toward the city gates. Those they passed stopped to watch the royal family leave, and for a time Elfwine was occupied by his determination to wave at everyone. To Éomer's surprise, not a few of his people called out to Lothíriel, and she returned their greetings with a gracious nod or smile.

He supposed he should have expected it, for even he could not deny that she had risen magnificently to the challenge of ruling Rohan while he was in the south—better than he might have done on his own, loath though he was to admit it. He had returned home to find their stores still brimming from a bountiful harvest, Helm's Deep a bustle of activity, the White Mountain passes cleared and repaved, and plans under way to restore the old trade fair he remembered from before Gríma's influence became too great.

His loyal advisors had rallied to her, and within moments of his first council session he had perceived that he would have no support if he attempted to remove her again. Rohan had more than subsisted under her charge—it had thrived. And she, too, had changed, with her Rohirric improved beyond all measure and her confidence restored to its former heights. Where once she had mastered the art of slipping around corners and out of his way, now she planted herself squarely in his field of vision and refused to move.

Shaking his head, as if he could banish her from his mind at least, Éomer tried to focus on his surroundings. The gates to the city had swung open before them, and they filed out of Edoras between the white-dappled barrows of past kings. None of the Riders spoke, and many bowed their heads in remembrance when they reached the end where Théodred and Théoden lay. Even Elfwine knew not to chatter during this moment, and his expression was uncharacteristically somber.

In spite of himself, Éomer glanced at Lothíriel, remembering all the doubts that had plagued him during his first years as king. Ever he had wondered what Théodred would have done, had he been able to take his rightful place—if the Westfold might have recovered sooner under his guidance, if the restructuring of the realm would have been handled more efficiently. It was Lothíriel who had finally insisted that he stop comparing himself to his cousin, reminding him of how far Rohan had come since the War. _We do not know what Théodred would have been like as king,_ she had told him in his darkest moments, _but we do know that your people love the king they have now._

And he had thought himself so lucky to have her at his side…

The mood lightened as the barrows were left behind, and one of the men started singing. Others joined in, and soon the air was filled with deep voices, through which Elfwine's high-pitched contributions threaded like a silver ribbon. Éomer even saw Lothíriel mouthing the words, as if determined to use every opportunity to practice Rohirric, and he almost smiled.

Leaving the Great West Road, they forded the Snowbourn and followed its course eastwards. The new path they had struck was well-traveled, and even on a relaxed ride such as this they moved at a good pace. Éomer's spirits rose—after a long week of extended meetings in that stifling council room, the wind in his face was refreshing, and he rejoiced in the sun warming his arms. Alas, if only his time were his own! Too infrequent were his excursions from Edoras.

Eventually the singing died down, dispersing into smaller pockets of conversation. With startling deftness, Elfwine seized advantage of the situation to make another attempt at drawing his parents together. "Can we go to Helm's Deep this summer?" he asked first, glancing back and forth between them so quickly that he almost steered Felara into Firefoot. "I want to see the Glittering Caves now that Gimli and the Dwarves have been working on them. Leggy says they are going to make lots of lamps so they can see everywhere."

Lothíriel let Éomer field that one. "We may," he answered, having in fact just begun composing a letter to Erkenbrand. "I should like to see these changes for myself. And it will be good for you to accompany me."

"And Mama, too," Elfwine said swiftly. "Last year all their sheep got sick and Mama sent them new ones and told them to keep them away from the sick ones and Erkenbrand was so grateful he sent her the best wool and she made both of us hats and mittens and gloves—"

"Your father has already heard about the sheep, Elfwine," Lothíriel said with reddening cheeks.

Elfwine's frown disappeared as quickly as it had come, a fleeting disturbance that smoothed out into a blank expression eerily reminiscent of his mother. Ignoring the setback, he changed the subject and tried again. "Me and Onyveth saw the snake today."

"Onyveth and _I_ ," Lothíriel corrected him.

"Onyveth and _I_ saw the snake today." Elfwine launched into a description of the house they were building for it, although it sounded like thus far they had not managed to tempt the snake from its abode in the wall. Éomer, for his part, was becoming increasingly inclined to kill the thing before someone was bitten, and judging by Lothíriel's fixed smile she had similar reservations about the children's endeavors.

Perhaps Elfwine sensed their lack of enthusiasm, for he abruptly abandoned the snake and said, "Onyveth wants to join our sword-fighting class."

"Does she?" Éomer could not claim to be surprised; he had already heard from Elfwine that Lebryn was teaching his daughter how to throw knives, which he had hoped was an exaggeration until Gúthwyn confirmed the tale in a worried letter. He supposed it had only been a matter of time before Lebryn would put a sword in Onyveth's hands, and he repressed a groan: girls were not outright forbidden from joining the classes, but they were certainly not encouraged, and he had a feeling that his intervention would eventually be required.

"She always beats Wymare when we play Orcs and Dwarves," Elfwine supplied cheerfully. "She says she wants to be just like Auntie Éowyn. Was Auntie Éowyn in the sword-fighting class, too?"

Éomer shook his head. "She was never allowed. But our cousin taught her, and we trained together until I joined an _éored_ —afterwards she practiced at the training grounds and on her own." Théoden had made one or two attempts to stop her, murmuring that it was too risky for her to spar with the men. But then Wormtongue had tightened his hold, and Éowyn had listened to no one after that.

"Just like Auntie Gúthwyn used to," Elfwine said, and then he tensed, his eyes darting between his parents.

 _He thinks we will argue, right here, right now, just because he said her name,_ Éomer realized sadly. And there were times when that had been true, when that was all it would have taken for his own temper to flare and for Lothíriel to throw up her defenses.

He saw, looking at her, that she was thinking the same thing. Behind them, the men's voices ebbed and flowed, individual words lost amid the burbling of the Snowbourn. Elfwine hunched over Felara, his frown deepening.

And then Lothíriel sighed and said, "Éomer, I have been meaning to ask you—do you think we ought to bring in cloth merchants from Dale for the winter fair? Thanks to Gimli, we already have several toymakers committed, but perhaps some variety from that region would be nice."

Éomer did not miss the way Elfwine's shoulders lifted, and he felt a rare sense of appreciation for Lothíriel's talent at steering conversations. Feigning interest, as though they had not discussed this same exact issue during yesterday's council session, he replied, "You may be right. Yet we already have the vendors from Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, so we will need enough space to accommodate them all."

"I am sure we could widen the field to add a few more stalls," Lothíriel suggested, nearly a word-for-word reiteration of what she had said during the meeting. "They shall be well-rewarded for their journey. Faramir has told me that Arwen is planning to commission several gowns, and I am sure all the women of the court will be eager to copy her selections."

Most children would have wearied of the subject and let their attention wander sooner rather than later, but Elfwine was plainly captivated by this rare display of amity between his parents. Noticing how his small brow had furrowed with concentration, as if he sought to stitch every word into his memory for later perusal, Éomer's guilt was renewed: it took so little to please his son, and yet like a miser he begrudged even the simplest of kindnesses to his wife.

Perhaps it was this which inspired him to say to Lothíriel, "I suppose we cannot allow ourselves to be outdone by Gondor. The Queen of Rohan ought to honor them with her patronage as well."

He could see from the slight widening of her eyes that he had caught her off-guard: this was not part of the script from the council meeting. Ever since Gúthwyn's departure he had refused to pay for her wardrobe, and not once had she so much as hinted at a desire for a new gown. He was not particularly proud of this, but he had told himself that it was only fair to deprive her of such luxury when she had deprived Gúthwyn of a husband.

"Perhaps I will," Lothíriel finally said, lifting her chin. "Thank you—for the suggestion."

"What color dress are you going to get?" Elfwine wanted to know.

"Grey would complement your eyes."

Again, Lothíriel looked at Éomer in astonishment. "Grey?" she repeated, as if she had never heard of such a color.

Éomer inwardly cursed himself for his loose tongue. Under Elfwine's gaze, however, he had no choice but to plow on. "Not a dull grey," he said, in case she thought to take offense—how many times had she heard him complain that it was the only color Gúthwyn would wear? But that was different, his sister practically shrouded herself in it. "A bluer grey," he went on, feeling distinctly out of his element and uncomfortably aware of Elfhelm and Gamling's presence only a few feet behind them. "Like… Like the sea."

For Béma's sake, had he just compared her eyes to the sea? What was he doing?

"That would be very pretty, Mama," Elfwine backed him up, grinning from ear to ear.

Lothíriel gave a murmur of agreement, but her gaze lingered suspiciously on Éomer. He was therefore quite relieved when Elfwine seized control of the conversation again and started interrogating Lothíriel about Dol Amroth.

At the end of an hour, they stopped alongside the Snowbourn in a small glade where willow trees dipped their branches into the rushing waters. After seeing to Firefoot, Éomer slipped away to join his men—between Lothíriel's wary looks and Elfwine's burgeoning expectations, he was starting to feel like a fish in a closing net.

"Any unusual sightings?" he asked Elfhelm and Gamling, who were refilling their canteens at the water's edge.

"None," Elfhelm assured him. "Unless you count the shade of purple Fréond's face turned when we were teasing him about his girl."

Éomer snorted. He could vaguely picture the girl in question, a young, amiable woman who blushed vivid red whenever Fréond outraced everyone to dance with her at feasts. If he was not mistaken, they would be married before the year was out and expecting shortly thereafter.

"I can think of an unusual sighting," Gamling remarked. When both men turned to look at him, he nodded significantly at Éomer. "You and Queen Lothíriel seemed to be getting along quite well."

"Not you, too," Éomer groaned when he saw the smirk in his captain's features. "We have merely agreed not to reduce ourselves to arguing in front of our son."

Elfhelm coughed. "And what about the queen's 'sea-grey' eyes?"

Éomer's stomach sank, and he wondered if he ought to throw himself into the Snowbourn then and there. "Did everyone hear that?"

"Not everyone," Gamling said, in what might have been a reassuring tone if the corners of his mouth had not been twitching. "Just Elfhelm and I."

"I was trying to be nice," Éomer growled. "For Elfwine's sake."

"And compliments on her beauty are indeed nice," Gamling said gravely. "For Elfwine's sake, of course."

But it was Elfhelm who cut to the quick. "You are raising the boy's hopes," he warned. "I would see my king and queen reconciled, yet I pray you are not leading him to a false end."

"We are not reconciled," Éomer said sharply. "And I will thank you to keep such speculation to yourself."

Elfhelm bowed his head, but just when Éomer thought the subject had been dropped the Marshal nodded again at Elfwine and said, "Then perhaps he should be told that."

This time Éomer did glance over. Several yards away, their backs to the shore, his wife and son were sitting on a large willow root that extended over the water. They had taken off their shoes, and Elfwine's small boots were stacked neatly beside Lothíriel's. As Éomer watched, Elfwine looked back and saw him; quickly he straightened, gesturing for his father to join them.

Éomer gave him a small smile and turned away, only to be pinned again by Elfhelm's gaze. "Would it truly be so impossible to let bygones be bygones?" the Marshal asked. "You are our king, and she is our queen. It would put your people at ease to see you united as you once were."

Gamling said nothing, but he was watching the exchange closely, and he gave an unconscious nod at Elfhelm's urging. Annoyed, Éomer retorted, "It is not so simple as that. Or have you forgotten the way she treated my sister?"

"Of course it was not right of her to start those rumors," Elfhelm said calmly. "Yet even Gúthwyn seems to have forgiven her—you said yourself that she was sending Lothíriel stories to read to Elfwine, and that is not the mark of a woman who bears ill will towards another."

"She does so out of love for Elfwine," Éomer snapped. "I can assure you that she has neither forgiven nor forgotten what was done to her."

"Leave it," Gamling said unexpectedly as Elfhelm opened his mouth. "Éomer, Elfwine is trying to get your attention."

Sure enough, when Éomer looked back Elfwine frantically waved him over. Lothíriel did not notice—she was staring across the water, and he could only guess where her thoughts had taken her. As reluctant as he was to return to her side, he could not very well ignore his son a second time.

"Papa, look at this lizard we found!" Elfwine cried joyfully at his approach. Lothíriel's head snapped up, but she did not turn around. "Come here, you have to sit next to us to see it."

Éomer highly doubted that, and his suspicions were confirmed when Elfwine scooted over to create a convenient place next to Lothíriel. For a moment, he was almost impressed by his son's deviousness.

 _And where do you think he gets that from?_ he thought an instant later, his mood darkening.

"Look at how small it is," Elfwine continued. "And it is the same color as the mud, so it can hide there. Can you see it, Papa?" He moved even further away from Lothíriel, making a solicitous gesture to the open space between them.

Éomer was beginning to think that he should not have been so harsh with Elfhelm—perhaps he did need to have a conversation with Elfwine about his well-intended interventions, the boy all but begging his parents for a gift they could not give. Yet to pull him aside now would have been to ruin the outing, and he had little choice but to submit to the seating arrangements.

Luckily for him, there was a rock that rose out of the riverbed close to the willow root, so at least he did not have to take off his boots. All the same, between him, Elfwine, and Lothíriel it was a rather tight fit, and the skirt of Lothíriel's riding dress kept brushing against his leggings. He glanced over to see if she had noticed, but she was still determinedly gazing at the water.

"See, _there_ ," Elfwine said triumphantly, pointing to another rock a few feet away. On the sun-bathed surface was the lizard, drying itself off after its exertions in the river. It was indeed the color of mud.

"Fascinating," Éomer agreed, and there was an almost imperceptible twitch from Lothíriel as her lips curved ever so slightly upwards.

"Do you think I could catch it?" Elfwine leaned closer to the lizard's rock, a speculative gleam in his eyes. "I want to show Onyveth."

"And what are you going to do with it afterwards?" Lothíriel inquired.

"Well…"

Before Elfwine could come up with an idea, Éomer said, "You should not remove this creature from its home. No doubt it has a family, just like you. And how do you think your mother and I would feel if someone took you from us?"

His words were sharper than he had intended them to be; he was thinking of Gúthwyn, and how life at Meduseld had unraveled after her capture. Elfwine looked chagrined, and Éomer was about to apologize for his curtness when the boy sprang to his feet. "I am going to talk to Elfhelm," he announced, and just as quickly he was gone, leaving Éomer and Lothíriel alone on the willow root.

"That little traitor," Éomer muttered before he could stop himself.

Lothíriel seemed to stifle another grin. "We should be glad he has not learned to be subtle about it. You can go back to Gamling and Elfhelm if you want, I will stay here."

It was a tempting offer, but Éomer thought it would be uncharitable of him to take her up on it so soon, especially when he turned around and saw Elfwine sneaking glances at them as he chatted with Elfhelm. "I think we can give him a few minutes," he said, and Lothíriel looked at him in surprise before nodding.

They sat in silence, the lizard regarding them lazily from its perch. Éomer considered putting more space between them, but the rock upon which his feet were balanced was small and he would not have been able to do so without sacrificing his boots to the river. Lothíriel had drawn up her skirts to keep them from getting wet, and he could see the pale curve of her leg before it disappeared into the water. Quickly he looked away.

"We ought to discourage him," Lothíriel said after a moment, tilting her face up towards Éomer's. "He is only setting himself up for disappointment."

Éomer felt a prickle of unease at their proximity; reminding himself that he was a battle-hardened warrior seemed to do little good when faced with those eyes which had once been so adept at disarming him. And he wondered at her words—had she at last surrendered, abandoning her attempts to save their marriage? He remembered how long she had fought, how often he had raged against her reminders that they had sworn vows to one another. Yet now he realized that he could not recall the last time she had reached out to him.

"He is," he managed, forgetting if this was a statement or a question.

Something shifted in Lothíriel's expression, vanishing before he could get a closer look. "We should tell him to stop."

"We should." Éomer's reply sounded wooden even to his own ears. "But there are some pretenses that we ought to maintain around him."

"Such as?"

"Civility, for a start."

Lothíriel gave him a small smile. "Is that still a pretense?" she asked, so softly he almost could not hear her over the water.

Éomer hesitated. It was true that things between them had improved since his return to the Mark—this outing itself was proof of that. They kept a fragile truce during council meetings, and not once over the past few months had she commented on Gúthwyn's increasingly withdrawn behavior. Sometimes he could have an entire conversation with her without dwelling on the reason for their estrangement. But ever it came back, an unpleasant aftertaste in the wake of their interactions, and reminding himself that Gúthwyn wanted him to be polite to Lothíriel did little to assuage his guilt.

"Not always," he admitted.

For once, Lothíriel did not have a ready answer; he wondered if he was imagining the hope in her eyes. At length she said, "I suppose we ought to be getting back."

He was about to protest, but then he recalled that he had been the one to insist upon such a short ride. Wondering why he should have thought himself content to remain upon the willow root for a while longer, he rose to his feet and climbed off the branch. On reflex, he then turned back to offer Lothíriel some assistance, but she had already gotten up.

"What are you doing?" he asked suspiciously when he saw her standing on one foot, balancing precariously on the twisted root.

Lothíriel seemed taken aback by his concern. "Drying my feet," she answered, as though it should have been obvious. Reaching behind her, she patted the hem of her riding gown against first one foot, then the other. "It is always so unpleasant to have dirt clinging to your—"

One instant she was talking, the next tumbling forward. Before she could so much as cry out in alarm, Éomer had caught her, his hands closing around her arms in a vise-like grip. "Careful!" he warned, too late.

Lothíriel's complexion had gone white, and she took a moment to brace herself against him. "I am sorry, that was foolish of me. Thank you."

"Are you all right?" he demanded. His heart was still racing: there were so many rocks nearby, she could have easily hit her head and gotten a serious injury.

"Yes, just startled," she assured him, regaining control of her breathing. "I only meant to sit back down so I could put on my boots—"

Éomer was not about to take any more chances. With practiced ease, he scooped up her legs and sat her back down on the root, belatedly hearing the silence around them and knowing with dreadful certainty that everyone else in the glade was watching them. Lothíriel must have perceived this as well, for a rare flush spread across her cheeks as she bent down to tie the lacings on her boots.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ Éomer thought, extending his hand when she was done. She arched an eyebrow at him, then gave a pointed glance behind him, as if to say, _Are you sure you want to make so public a gesture?_ The fall and the catch could be explained by happenstance, but there was no mistaking his intentions here.

He almost considered withdrawing his hand. He knew what his men would think; he knew what Elfwine would think. The former he could deal with, but his son was a different matter. Had he and Lothíriel not just agreed to avoid giving him false hope?

These counsels passed through his mind in an instant and were swiftly replaced by his own stubbornness. Was he, Éomer, King of Rohan, to refuse a display of simple courtesy to his wife for fear of wagging tongues? Was he not entitled, nay, obligated, to render this merest of services to her? They had also agreed to be civil in front of Elfwine, and surely he was doing just that.

Sensing his doubt, Lothíriel had started to stand on her own, but she stopped when he reached out to her once more. At last she consented to place her hand in his, and he helped her to her feet, determinedly refusing to look in the others' direction.

"Thank you," she said a second time, and he bowed his head. For a moment they regarded each other, until Éomer realized that he had not yet released her hand; he did so at once, and then with some reluctance he turned to face his men.

There was a flurry of movement, with many of the Riders suddenly discovering urgent tasks that required their attention, and others grinning into the water canteens they had hastily raised in the vain hope of escaping his notice. Then, to his everlasting relief, he saw Elfwine and Elfhelm crouched along another stretch of the riverbank, the Marshal showing the boy how to discern between different types of water plants. As he watched, Elfhelm glanced up; their eyes met, and Éomer gave him a grateful nod.

"We ride to Edoras!" he announced, and immediately the men leaped into action, gathering their belongings and returning to the horses. Guessing correctly that now was not the time to test their king's mood, not one of them dared to comment on the scene they had witnessed. Elfwine returned to his parents, reluctant to leave so soon, yet none the wiser for what had just happened.

 _Nothing happened_ , Éomer corrected himself. _You helped your wife to her feet. Anyone who chooses to make more of that than what it is would do well to keep their gossip away from my ears._

"I will ride with Gamling," he said abruptly, causing both of them to look at him—Elfwine in dismay, Lothíriel in what was far too close to understanding for his comfort. Before either of them could respond, he turned around and strode back to his men, feeling her gaze upon him the entire way.


	6. The Strangled Swan

**WARNING:** Some parts of this chapter may be triggering. Please PM me if you have any concerns.

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

Visitors were often struck dumb by the port of Dol Amroth, and this was especially true today, with swan-white ships gleaming beneath cloudless skies and foam-capped waves lapping gently at their hulls. These were the vessels owned by the royal family, occupying the prime spot in the harbor—further down, the docks exploded into color, with ships bearing sigils, merchants, and goods from every province in Gondor.

Normally, Elphir liked to linger and watch the sailors unload their cargo, or stroll along the quays and make conversation with the supervising captains, but this morning he was waiting impatiently for Erchirion. They were supposed to join their father and Alphros onboard the _Foambreaker_ , which they were taking out to sail around the Bay; they would not return until the sun was setting and the sea glowing red.

Yet although Alphros and Imrahil were waiting onboard, Erchirion had been reluctant to leave the castle, and he had insisted on checking on Amrothos—as if afraid their brother might have left the bedroom where he had more or less spent the last two years. When they finally set out for the harbor, Erchirion continued to delay, frequently pausing to turn and frown at the white towers of their home. Now, mere yards away from the _Foambreaker_ , he had come to a halt again.

"Erchirion! Stop worrying and get on the ship!"

Elphir waited, but there was no reply; Erchirion stood with his back to the ocean, one hand shading his eyes as he stared at the castle. Sailors and fishermen brushed past him, apologizing, yet still he did not move.

"Father?"

Elphir glanced back to see Alphros leaning over the side of the _Foambreaker_ , his dark grey eyes narrowed with concern. "Is Uncle Erchirion coming with us? Grandfather is ready to leave."

"Tell him we will be just a moment—and keep an eye on Huan," Elphir warned, spotting the two small paws that had folded over the rail next to Alphros. The rather optimistically named dog was not yet tall enough to see over the side, but Elphir did not relish the thought of having to rescue it from the water.

"I said I would!" With a distinct air of injury, Alphros turned away and beckoned imperiously to the dog. "Come, Huan! Come here, Huan! Follow me! Come, boy—come—"

Elphir sighed. Alphros had found Huan on the beach last summer, half-starved and crawling with fleas, and apparently Imrahil had made little more than a token effort to dissuade him from bringing the stray home. "I thought it would be good for him to be occupied while you were away," he had explained, and in a moment of weakness Elphir had relented. At least Huan did follow Alphros's commands, eventually.

Shaking his head, Elphir made another bid for his brother's attention, unconsciously imitating Alphros's attempts to rein in Huan. "Erchirion, come. We are leaving. Amrothos will be fine for one afternoon."

Erchirion turned to face him; it was almost like looking in a mirror. "Do you not think he was acting strangely today?"

"As opposed to any other day?" Elphir asked, raising his eyebrows. He supposed it had been unusual that Amrothos was even awake at all, let alone coherent enough to wish them a good trip, but he had learned not to place much stock in his brother's better days, which were few and far between.

Erchirion did not seem capable of articulating what had troubled him about Amrothos's conduct, and after a moment he muttered, "We should not have left him alone."

"He has a small army of servants at his beck and call," Elphir said impatiently. "He is hardly going to starve."

"That is not what worries me."

Despite himself, Elphir hesitated. "Do you think he will try to break into the wine cellar again?"

"No, it is not that—" Erchirion broke off, looking frustrated, just as they were interrupted by a call from the ship.

"Elphir? Erchirion? What is the matter?"

"Nothing, Father," they chorused like miscreant children. This time, Erchirion consented to follow Elphir up the ramp, though not without another glance at the castle.

"Is everything all right?" Imrahil asked as they boarded. "Erchirion?"

Erchirion shook his head, spared further questioning when Huan bounded over and started sniffing his boots. Imrahil watched him for a moment, then signaled to the captain that they were ready.

The _Foambreaker_ came alive with activity. Men raced to their positions, shouting at one another as they scrambled up the rigging; the anchor was hoisted, the sails unfurled in a glorious sprawl of white. Huan barked at everyone, and Alphros eventually had to restrain him so that he would not get in the way. At last, with surprising smoothness for her size, the _Foambreaker_ slid away from the dock.

In the midst of all this, Erchirion withdrew to the stern of the ship, distancing himself from the others. Elphir tried to ignore him; he did not want to think about Amrothos any more than he had to, which was often. Yet as the wind gathered and the deck began to sway below him, even the shining sun and the open sea ahead could not distract him from the brother who had stayed behind.

It had once been so simple to hate Amrothos, but the years had since diluted Elphir's anger with worry, helplessness, and guilt. It was true, he had never forgiven Amrothos for what he had done that summer in Rohan; in the months after their return to Dol Amroth, he had not spoken to him once. But then Amrothos's drunkenness had spiraled out of control, and he had become someone Elphir did not recognize anymore.

This version of his brother had hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, and shadows where bones strained against skin. He no longer went sailing, horseback riding, or carousing with his friends; he had even stopped chasing women. Instead he barricaded himself in his room and slept through most of the day, then woke up at night from horrible dreams he would never tell anyone about—although once, Elphir had heard him crying out for their mother.

He was certainly not the same Amrothos who had locked eyes with him across a stable, his hand halfway up the shirt of the woman Elphir had once hoped to love.

And more and more, he found himself wishing for that Amrothos to reappear.

Gúthwyn, he was sure, had not changed. He still felt sick to his stomach whenever he thought of her; he still had dreams of walking in on her and Amrothos, experiencing anew the pain and humiliation of that day. The look of horror in her eyes when she realized they had been caught, her cheap theatrics afterwards—and once she saw that he would not be fooled by her tears, she had run straight to her brother with a tale of Amrothos assaulting her. As if she had not spent that entire month dancing, riding, and whispering in corners with him!

How Imrahil had fallen for it, Elphir would never know.

"Father, Grandfather, look! Uncle Erchirion, you too—"

Elphir turned around, cringing when he saw Alphros atop the side rail, one hand clutching the rigging and the other pointing at something in the harbor water. Several years ago, Alphros had grown overconfident in his climbing abilities and had fallen overboard; despite knowing the boy had learned to swim practically before he could walk, Elphir would not soon forget the terror that had seized him in those moments, and he secretly longed to pull Alphros down every time he clambered up again.

Even Erchirion dragged his eyes away from the castle long enough to join the others gathering around Alphros. They had to be careful not to step on Huan, who was circling anxiously below his master.

"Is that a swan?" Alphros asked, pointing.

Imrahil's mouth set into a grim line. "Yes, it is."

Elphir followed their gazes. Several yards away from the _Foambreaker_ , drifting in a patch of seaweed, was a dead swan. By the looks of it, the poor creature had gotten caught in a fisherman's net and had strangled itself on the rope. Its long, thin neck was bent at an unnatural angle, and its beak was still grasping at the net—it had fought until its last breath.

A sailor nearby made a hasty sign to ward off bad luck. "An ill omen, my lord," he advised Imrahil. "We ought to turn back now, before it is too late."

Imrahil did not seem terribly inclined to call off the outing—Dol Amroth sailors were notoriously superstitious and saw ill omens in everything—but Erchirion frowned, and Elphir saw him look back once more at the castle.

Then he started removing his coat.

"Erchirion, what are you doing?" Elphir demanded, praying that his hunch was incorrect.

"This is wrong," Erchirion muttered. "We should never have left."

"Uncle Erchirion, are you going to rescue the swan? I think it is already dead," Alphros informed him.

"Erchirion, what on Middle-earth has gotten into you?" Imrahil's brow furrowed as he watched his son strip down to all but his leggings and an undershirt. "You cannot go for a swim now, we are not even out of the harbor."

Erchirion hopped up onto the rail beside Alphros. "I am sorry, Father, but you will have to excuse me this afternoon."

"Erchirion, this is ridiculous, Amrothos has probably fallen back asleep—"

All Elphir got in response was a loud _splash_ as Erchirion dove off the boat.

"Erchirion!" Imrahil bellowed, Huan yapping at his heels. "Come back here immediately!"

But Erchirion ignored him, already swimming towards the nearest dock. Elphir knew that he would no longer listen to reason, that he would not be satisfied until he had returned to the castle and seen for himself that Amrothos was safe in his bed.

And he cursed under his breath, for he knew that Erchirion would not be completing this mad quest alone.

"Not you as well," Imrahil growled when Elphir shed his coat. "Shall we just turn the ship around and have done with it?"

"Father, why are you leaving?" Alphros asked worriedly. "Is Uncle Amrothos in trouble? Can I go with you?"

Elphir paused in the midst of undoing his belt and said, "Stay with your grandfather. Erchirion and I will take another boat out and catch up with you once we have checked on Amrothos."

"But—"

"Elphir, what is going on?" Imrahil's voice was laced with growing concern. "Why is Erchirion so worried about Amrothos? He was in bed when we left."

"I hope Erchirion is just being paranoid," Elphir said grimly, "but all the same, I will go with him."

The last thing he heard as he leaped off the ship was Huan yelping; then the water closed over his head, and the world above was muted. Propelled by his dive, he shot several yards forward without expending much effort. At length he surfaced, took a deep breath, and swam after his brother. Erchirion was well ahead of him and nearly at the dock, but Elphir had always been the better swimmer, and before long he had narrowed the distance between them.

"Erchirion, wait!" he called as his brother reached the dock and hauled himself, dripping, onto the planks.

Erchirion glanced back, surprise rippling across his features when he saw Elphir—but only for an instant. "Hurry!" he shouted, taking off at a sprint.

Elphir swore: Erchirion was by far the swifter runner. As he neared the dock, a swell pushed the dead swan into his path, and he had to pull up short to avoid crashing into it. He could see tiny silver fish circling beneath it, darting in and out to take small bites; one of its eyes was already gone.

Normally he felt the same way as his father about supposed signs, but perhaps the sailor's warning and Erchirion's fey behavior had unsettled him more than he had thought, for the gruesome sight provoked within him a sharp sense of dread. Grimacing, he swam around the swan and pulled himself out of the water. Then he raced after his brother, ignoring the stares of the fishermen.

At least he did not have to waste time searching for Erchirion in the crowd—their horses were stabled near the harbor entrance, and undoubtedly he was headed there. Yet precious seconds were lost with every sailor he had to dodge, each cage or barrel he had to maneuver around, and every apology he had to utter as he knocked someone aside. Erchirion should have been encumbered by the same activity, but whenever Elphir glanced up he seemed to have gotten further ahead.

Finally the stables rose up before him, and he saw Erchirion fly through the doors as though possessed. Elphir was already breathing heavily—it had not been a short run—but he did not dare slow down. At this rate, Erchirion was likely to leave him behind.

"This is highly irregular," he heard the stablemaster fussing as he reached the doors. "You might catch a cold, my lord, if you go out like—in Ulmos's name, Prince Elphir!"

Elphir knew his appearance must have been shocking, but there was no time to assure Tarondor that he and his brother had not gone mad. Erchirion emerged from the largest stall with Eärocco and Eärecya, tossing the former's reins to Elphir.

"Do me a favor and try not to run over anyone," Elphir muttered to Erchirion as they mounted their steeds. "You know Father will hear about it."

Erchirion shot him a look, as if to say that now was not the time for such precautions, and kicked Eärecya forward. Together they rode out of the stables, leaving behind several astonished servants certain to wag their tongues.

They thundered up the road leading from the harbor to the castle, but they were forced to take numerous detours through the city's side streets in order to avoid the bustling markets. Erchirion's shoulders tensed with each delay, and Elphir knew he would have pushed his way through the crowds if he could. He himself was feeling increasingly anxious to get home. Although he was still inclined to believe Erchirion was overreacting, the sooner they were able to confirm that Amrothos was right where they had left him, the better.

At last the markets fell behind. They followed the main street through rows of tall houses, which gradually dispersed as the road broadened and the paving improved. On one side were sheer cliffs plunging recklessly into the ocean; on the other, fields and verdant pastures that gradually gave way to the outposts of the royal gardens. And there, atop a high green hill, was the castle, its white walls carved with vines and flowers, the banner of Dol Amroth flying proudly atop the blue rooves of its many towers and turrets.

Elphir and Erchirion rode up to the gate, where the guards exchanged mystified glances but let them pass; once they were in the courtyard, they hastily dismounted, avoiding inquiries from the servants. Instead of taking the grand entrance into the main hall, Erchirion ducked through a side door that offered a quicker route to the royal family's quarters. Dozens of tapestries fluttered in their wake as they raced up a series of spiral staircases, sparing no glance for the windows that offered magnificent views of the ocean.

Elphir was quite beginning to regret this escapade. Like as not, Amrothos would either be asleep or barely conscious when they checked on him, and then they would have needlessly worried their father. Yet whenever he tried to point this out, Erchirion ignored him, and soon he was breathing too hard to speak.

At last, they came to a stumbling halt in front of Amrothos's chambers. A lone guard stood watch, not so much to thwart intruders as to prevent the room's occupant from wandering off unsupervised.

"I looked in on him a quarter of an hour ago, my lords," the guard reported, and Elphir noticed how young he was beneath his helmet—young and eager to please. "He was writing letters and asked not to be disturbed."

Elphir and Erchirion exchanged glances, and Erchirion said what they were both thinking: "Amrothos never writes letters."

The guard shuffled nervously in front of the door as they stepped forward. "H-He asked not to be disturbed…"

His protests faded beneath the ire in the princes' eyes, and he quickly stepped aside.

 _A ruse,_ Elphir thought as Erchirion turned the doorknob. _Amrothos took advantage of our absence to try to find something to drink, and he told this idiot guard to give him privacy so that he would have plenty of time to escape and return._

That was why he was looking at the window when the door opened, and that was how he first saw Amrothos: a dark figure spinning slowly beneath the chandelier, framed by the dazzling light of a sparkling blue sea.

Elphir would never remember which of them screamed their brother's name first; but suddenly both of them were surging forward, even as time slowed so that it seemed like they were running through water instead of air, precious seconds wasted before they could reach him. Amrothos's palms were turned towards them as if in welcome, his eyes closed in acceptance—details they discarded in the moment but to which they would return over and over again in the weeks after, wondering what could have been done differently, which signs they had missed, what roles they themselves might have played.

They grabbed him by the legs, hoisting him up so that his neck would no longer be bearing his weight, but this was a mistake—now he was too high, and he began to pitch forward. Elphir shouted a warning, and Erchirion caught him just in time.

"A sword!" Erchirion said hysterically. "Where is his sword, where is it—"

"Your sword!" Elphir bellowed at the guard, who was still frozen in the doorway, his eyes filled with horror. "Cut him down, now!"

The command shook the guard out of his stupor and he hurried forward, his fingers slipping on his scabbard as he pulled out the blade.

"Hold him, hold him—" Elphir did not know why he was saying this when Erchirion's grip on Amrothos was as tight as his, two sets of knuckles bone white against their dead or dying brother's flesh. "Hurry up!" he roared to the guard.

They heard a _swoosh_ , and Amrothos folded over them. There was another noise, a rustling of parchment, as envelopes spilled out of his pockets and scattered over the floor. Each letter had been addressed to a different family member, and Elphir's stomach clenched when he saw his own name. Without thinking, he kicked the envelopes away; he did not want to know what his brother's final words had been.

With some effort, he and Erchirion managed to lower Amrothos to the floor. There he lay, unresponsive to their touch, his face devoid of color—except for his lips, which were a ghastly shade of blue. They realized that he had hanged himself with his cloak: the thick fabric was knotted tightly around his neck, and what little they could see of the skin beneath was a mottled purple.

Elphir motioned towards the guard. "Your dagger!"

After fumbling away several seconds that Amrothos did not have, the guard at last produced the dagger. As he leaned forward to slit the cloak, his hands trembled; noticing this, Elphir shot him a black look and snatched the weapon away.

"Be careful!" Erchirion gasped, but Elphir paid him no heed. Pulling the cloak as far from Amrothos's neck as he could, he slid the flat edge of the blade underneath, then turned it up and yanked it towards himself. Some of the fabric ripped, but not all; he nearly howled with frustration. His second attempt was too hasty, and the dagger caught Amrothos under the chin, spilling several drops of blood. Amrothos did not stir.

"Come _on_!" In his impatience to get the infernal cloak away from his brother, Elphir tore it into jagged pieces. When at last it was dislodged, he shoved it aside—although really he wanted to fling it into the Sea, where it would never touch Amrothos again. "Go get the healer," he ordered the guard. "And send someone to find our father."

The guard looked relieved to have something to do—or perhaps he was just eager to be gone, away from the still body of his prince. As he stood, Elphir caught him by the sleeve. "You utter a single word of this to anyone other than the people I have mentioned, and I will personally hunt you down and rip out your tongue myself!"

"Y-Yes, my lord."

As the guard ran off, Erchirion asked in a small voice, "Is he—?"

Elphir reached out and gingerly pressed two fingers to the ruins of Amrothos's neck. After a moment, something fluttered weakly against his skin, and he almost wept with relief.

"He is still alive!"

It was more than they had hoped for, but they could not rejoice. "Should we try to rouse him?" Erchirion wanted to know. "Should we move him to the bed? Or put something on his neck for the bruises?"

Elphir gave a helpless shrug. He could devise a sling for an injured soldier as a battle raged around them; he knew what herbs to look for when one of his men contracted a fever; once, he had even helped to amputate a limb that was beyond saving. But he did not know what to do now for his brother. Only the worst sort of criminals were hanged in Dol Amroth, and there had never been any need to resuscitate them.

When he did not answer, Erchirion bent over Amrothos, smoothing his dark hair away from his brow. Were it not for the discoloration of his skin, one might have thought him asleep; there were no contortions in his expression, and despite the horror of the past few moments, he looked almost at peace. "That was what it was," Erchirion murmured at last. "What worried me when we left. He was so calm. He… He knew…"

Against his will, Elphir's eyes were drawn to the corner where he had kicked the letters. He imagined Amrothos, alone in his room, writing to each of them in turn…

Erchirion began to weep. "Amrothos, wake up," he whispered, choking on his grief. "Amrothos, please—Amrothos—"

He repeated their brother's name over and over again, long after it became clear that there would be no response, until Elphir was flinching with each attempt—yet although he longed to tell Erchirion to stop, his voice seemed to have deserted him and he could not form the words. Unable to do anything except clutch the now-useless dagger, he listened numbly to Erchirion's cries, wondering all the while why his own tears never came.

It was in this way that the healer found them.


	7. Peace Offering

**Chapter Seven**

"You ought to speak to Gúthwyn," Lothíriel said to Éomer one morning, just after they had dismissed the council and just before he could slip away with the departing advisors.

Éomer's hackles rose—he did not trust any business Lothíriel might have with his sister. "About what?"

"About Legolas," Lothíriel elaborated, ignoring his hostility. "She is not being very discreet—"

For her to dare criticize Gúthwyn's propriety, after everything she had done to undermine her reputation, was galling. He reacted instantly, not bothering to listen to the rest of her poison. "I do not believe you are in any position to be giving my baby sister advice on her love life, considering all your efforts to ruin it."

Lothíriel's eyes widened—they always did, no matter how slightly, even though she had conditioned the rest of her body to remain still—but then she recovered, retorting, "Were you not the one who told me their betrothal is supposed to be a secret?"

For a moment, all he could see was his own fury. "If you think—if you _dare_ to blackmail me"—Lothíriel tried to speak, but he would not let her—"then you can forget about ever setting foot in this room again."

The seconds stretched between them, the tension unbearable; then Lothíriel straightened and clenched her fists. "Get a hold of yourself," she snapped, sounding so eerily like her father on the battlefield that Éomer stiffened in surprise. "You spend so much time second-guessing and suspecting everything I do, you would mistrust your own shadow if I told you it was behind you. But maybe if you just _listened_ , perhaps let me complete a sentence without jumping down my throat—"

"You grossly exaggerate—"

" _Have I finished speaking?_ " Lothíriel demanded, her voice so loud it utterly drowned out his.

Éomer gritted his teeth. He could have shouted her down, but the Valar knew how many people would start eavesdropping at the closed door. "Fine," he growled. "Finish."

Lothíriel stared at him coldly. "I was only going to say that people are starting to ask questions. Legolas has been here for nearly a month, and every day he is seen in your sister's company, whether they are walking down the street together or going outside the city for a picnic. You were the one who said that their involvement is supposed to be a secret, and now I am telling you that they are doing a terrible job of keeping it. The only reason the rumors did not start weeks ago is because Legolas is an Elf."

She was right, of course, although Éomer did not want to admit it. In fact, just the other day—he remembered now with unease—Elfhelm had made a light, yet undeniably curious remark about how long Legolas had been a guest at the Golden Hall, and Éomer had brushed it off, saying that Legolas was a friend and welcome to stay as long as he liked. Too late, he realized he should have taken the opportunity to nip any potential rumors in the bud.

"And who is asking you questions?"

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow. "The maids, for one. I told them that Legolas is helping to train Elfwine, which I suggest you put out as well, since there is some truth in it. Then, of course, I warned them that if they thought to gossip about the king's visitors, they could find another household to work for—which should ensure their discretion, at least until everyone else in Edoras starts talking. And it is only a matter of time before that happens, so you had best lay the groundwork for a better explanation."

The worst part was, he knew he would have to take her advice—and she knew it, also. "Keep your maids in line, then," he told her, stalking towards the door, "and I will deal with anyone else who stirs up rumors."

"Starting with your sister, I hope."

Lothíriel's parting shot thrummed behind him, and he turned halfway around before deciding—with no small amount of restraint—that it was not worth his time to bother responding to such insolence.

He did, however, take care to close the door behind him with far more force than necessary.

In the throne room, he was accosted by Aldor, who had a question about something that had been brought up at the meeting. They were deep in conversation when the doors to Meduseld opened and a messenger hurried inside, his clothing disheveled and his breath coming in short gasps.

Éomer recognized him as one of Imrahil's servants, and his heart dropped. A messenger's journey completed in reckless haste could only mean one thing: ill tidings. Had something happened to Imrahil?

He stepped forward, but the messenger looked right past him, searching for another. "I have a letter for Princess—Queen Lothíriel," he wheezed; the words were barely audible, but they nevertheless drew the attention of everyone in the hall. "It is most urgent!"

Éomer was about to tell him that surely a letter of such importance could also be read by the king, but before he had the chance a voice rang out behind him.

"Menadan, is that you?"

Lothíriel strode towards them, her eyes darting around at the growing audience. For but an instant, they fell on Éomer, an uneasy question forming within her gaze; then she focused on the messenger.

As everyone watched, Menadan walked past Éomer and bowed before Lothíriel. "I bring word from your father," Éomer heard him murmur as he handed her a letter.

 _Not Imrahil, then_ , Éomer thought in relief.

It took only seconds for Lothíriel to break the seal and unfold the parchment; it did not take her much longer to read the words inside. As she did, all the color drained from her face, and she staggered back a few steps before she could right herself.

"What is it?" Éomer demanded, closing the distance between them.

Lothíriel's head snapped up, but she was not looking at him. Instead she stared at Menadan as though she had a million questions yet could not think of which one to ask first, her eyes wide with horror.

"Lothíriel." Éomer gripped her shoulder, determined to have answers.

As if his touch had scalded her, she wrenched away, and an astonished murmur rippled through the onlookers. Éomer hastily withdrew his hand—he was suddenly reminded of the days when Gúthwyn had not been well, when she had jumped at any unexpected contact.

"Lothíriel?" he repeated warily.

He saw her returning to herself, becoming aware of his presence once more. Then, without a word, she pushed the letter into his hands and fled the hall.

Éomer took a step after her, then paused and glanced down at the letter. Smoothing it out, he began to read. It was short and to the point.

 _My dearest daughter,_

 _It is with a heavy heart that I inform you Amrothos attempted to kill himself this morning. Elphir and Erchirion found him hanging from the chandelier in his bedroom. The healers are doing everything they can to revive him, but we fear the worst. We do not know how long he was there before Elphir and Erchirion cut him down, and since then he has neither opened his eyes nor shown the slightest sign of being aware of his surroundings._

 _Lothíriel, you are needed here. Please come home. Your brothers are distraught, and Alphros has not stopped crying since he learned the news. I pray that Amrothos will live long enough for you to see him one last time._

 _With all my love,_

 _Imrahil_

Éomer stared down at his friend's uneven scrawl, a stark departure from his usually elegant penmanship. Amrothos hanging himself—he would never have imagined the man capable of such an act. And for his own brothers to find him… by the Valar, how horrific a scene that must have been…

But why would Amrothos try to take his own life? Éomer knew that he had been ill, that Imrahil had been fighting to put an end to his drinking—yet what madness would drive him to such a desperate act? And how could it have possibly been worth putting his family through such an ordeal?

Something was clawing at his memory, something he had said to Lothíriel during one of their arguments… Imrahil had written to her of Amrothos's worsening condition, and he, Éomer, had denied his wife the right to visit her ailing brother…

Hot shame flooded through him, but that was not the worst of it. Angry with her for asking to leave, he had snarled at her, _Amrothos can die, for all I care. It would be the best thing he has done since he left Rohan._ The recollection filled him with self-loathing. Of course he could not have predicted the future, but nevertheless his remarks had been in very poor taste…

"My lord?"

It was Aldor who had spoken; he and the other advisers were watching Éomer expectantly. Nor were they the only ones eager to hear the news.

"The queen's brother is gravely ill," he announced, raising his voice so that everyone in the throne room could hear—better to quell any speculation now and leave no room for misinterpretation. "We must hope for his recovery."

The last part he added because he felt he ought to; but then, he thought as he started after Lothíriel, he supposed he did not truly want Amrothos to die, even after all he had done. At least not this way, lingering… it would be very upsetting to Lothíriel…

Once again, Aldor's voice pulled him out of his musings. "Not Prince Elphir, my lord?" the old man ventured. Éomer could already see the calculations forming behind his eyes.

Well, he could hardly blame his longest-serving councilor for doing his job. "The heir is safe," he said drily.

At least Aldor had the grace to flush. "I only—"

Éomer waved away the justifications. He himself had given many a thought to the ruling line of Dol Amroth, as he was not looking forward to the day when Elphir succeeded his father. With any luck, Elphir would be inclined to maintain the realms' cordial relationship for Lothíriel's sake, but between him and Éomer there remained an intense, mutual dislike. Elphir still believed those appalling lies about Gúthwyn, and Éomer would never be friends with someone who had behaved so dishonorably towards his sister.

But that was a problem for another day.

"Excuse me," he said to the advisers, who looked as if they were bursting with questions. Ignoring the mutters his announcement had caused amongst the rest of the hall's occupants, he went to search for Lothíriel.

He found himself slowing as he approached the door to her chambers—he was not quite certain how to console her, and he suspected guiltily that she would not be receptive to his attempts. Already he could see the whole thing ending in yet another argument, with her accusing him of not caring about Amrothos and him retorting that she was being unreasonable.

It was almost enough to make him walk away, but no matter how badly his marriage had disintegrated, he could not in good conscience allow her to grieve for Amrothos alone. He squared his shoulders, turned the handle…

…and found himself gaping into a whirlwind of activity. A pair of saddlebags lay wide open on the bed; the wardrobe and a trunk at the foot of the bed had been flung open; and Lothíriel was hurrying among them, tossing dresses and linens with reckless abandon.

"Come to gloat, have you?" Lothíriel snapped when she saw him. Her eyes were red, and she did not look at him long before burying her head in the wardrobe. Her next words were muffled, punctuated by soft _thumps_ as she yanked out garments and dropped them on the floor. "My good-for-nothing drunkard of a brother has finally gotten his comeuppance, and now you can only hope for a slow, excruciating death!" Her voice hitched, and yet more clothing flew out of the wardrobe, landing angrily on the ground.

By the Valar, she was infuriating! "I have not come to gloat," he said as evenly as he could manage. Looking for something to do with his hands, which were clenching into fists, he bent over and scooped the clothes off the floor, carefully laying them out on the bed. "I came to offer my…" _Condolences_ was too formal; _support_ sounded like he was bringing troops to a battle. "Sympathy," he finished, regretting his choice immediately.

Lothíriel emerged from the wardrobe, her eyes even redder than before. For a moment, she looked in surprise at the clothes on the bed; then her features contorted with fury. " _Sympathy_?"

"I—"

"As if you care about Amrothos," she hissed. "You were the one who said he ought to die—well, now you have gotten your wish."

The bottom of her lip trembled, and she stormed past him to the bed, where she started shoving clothes into the saddlebags.

"That was not my wish," Éomer said through gritted teeth. "I never wanted—"

She laughed bitterly, closing one of the bags with such force that it was a wonder the clasp did not break. Éomer had to bite his tongue—part of him knew that she was just lashing out, and now was not the time to rise to her bait. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he continued, "My sympathy is for you—"

"For _me_?" Lothíriel whirled around, her eyes bright with unshed tears and rage. "As if you care about _me_!"

By now, it was pure instinct to argue with her. "Of course I care about you!"

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke—her astonishment seemed to mirror his own. Then, swallowing, Lothíriel returned to her packing. Not knowing what else to do, Éomer stayed where he was, wishing he could somehow retract his words. He had not meant to phrase it like that… although it had not been entirely untrue… if, say, someone were to attack her, he would defend her without a second thought…

 _But that is not what you were thinking of,_ said a voice that he could not quite ignore.

 _Do not be ridiculous,_ another part of him scoffed. _You let her get under your skin, and you let her know it, and no doubt she will find a way to turn those words against you the instant she has stopped grieving for her brother._

He heard a sharp intake of breath, and he realized that Lothíriel had hoisted the bags onto her shoulders. "What are you doing?" he asked, stepping in front of her when she tried to move around him.

"What do you _think_ I am doing?" she snarled, attempting to reach the door again. Before she could object, he took both of the bags from her and tossed them back onto the bed.

"You are _not_ going to ride off to Dol Amroth like a madwoman."

Lothíriel drew herself up to her full height, which would have been less impressive had she not looked quite capable of murder. "If you even _try_ to prevent me from seeing my brother, then by nightfall there will be no one left in this city who does not know of your dishonor—I will make such a scene that you will hear whispers everywhere you go!"

"No one is—"

"Just _try_ , Éomer!" Lothíriel shrieked. "Let your people know exactly what kind of a man they have for a king!"

Now Éomer was truly starting to get angry. "You—"

But Lothíriel was beyond all reason. "This is _your_ fault!" she screamed at him, her face the color of his armor.

Éomer was so taken aback that he forgot what he had been about to say. " _My_ fault?" he demanded when he recovered. "How on Middle-earth is Amrothos's—situation—in any way _my_ fault?"

"You never let me visit him!" Tears were cascading down Lothíriel's cheeks; angrily she brushed them away, but more appeared to replace the ones she had caught. "My father begged me to come back years ago—he said I might be the only one to get through to him! But _you_ —you forbade me—if I had just been able to talk to him—but _you_ —a-and now h-he is…"

And Lothíriel began to cry.

Éomer was so stunned by the sight that at first he did nothing—merely watched her crumple in on herself, her shoulders shaking as she tried desperately to hide her tears from him. Then his senses kicked in: despite everything that had happened between them, despite the fact that they had been arguing only seconds ago, he could not stand aside now when she was at her most vulnerable.

Slowly, hesitatingly, he moved forward. He did not know what to do—it had been so long since he had touched her in any way that was not part of an act for Elfwine, he had almost forgotten how. At first he thought to hug her, but then he balked and settled for placing a tentative hand on her shoulder.

She flinched a little, but she did not pull away, even though she was still keeping her head turned in the vain hope that he would not see her tears. Her long, dark hair was parted over her shoulders and it caught the light as she wept, shimmering like a river beneath a star-strewn night. Some of it spilled over his fingers, and he remembered stroking it when they were alone, marveling at its softness.

Feeling betrayed by his own thoughts, Éomer hastily cleared his throat. "I am not going to stop you from seeing Amrothos," he said, and the muscles beneath his fingers stiffened with surprise. "But you will have to wait until tomorrow to depart."

She pulled back; his hand was left holding air. "And why is that?" she demanded.

It was a sure mark of her distress that she had not grasped his reasoning immediately, and he tried to be patient as he explained, "You cannot travel without an escort, and I will need time to round up enough men. Since I assume you will wish to hasten your journey by taking one of the White Mountain passes, your guards will have to bring the proper equipment, not to mention all the other supplies necessary for such a trip. And as we are already well into the afternoon, these preparations will certainly not be done before nightfall. At best, you will be able to set out after breakfast tomorrow."

Lothíriel's brow furrowed, as though she were striving to find a counterargument, but even in her state she could not deny the sense in his words. "Fine," she said grudgingly. "But I am not waiting more than an hour past breakfast, and your men will have to catch up if they wish to escort me."

Éomer nodded, inwardly making a note to himself to have Lothíriel's horse padlocked in its stall until everything was ready for her to leave. "I will go, then."

He turned towards the door, already thinking. Gamling was a natural choice to lead the expedition, but he wanted at least a dozen men, and preferably two female servants. Then he needed to write a letter for Lothíriel to bring to Imrahil, expressing his condolences…

He had one foot out the door before he realized that he had never heard Lothíriel's response. Looking back, he saw that she had emptied one of the bags and was refolding everything with considerably more care than the first time; both of her hands were shaking.

"I am sorry about Amrothos," he said, catching both of them off-guard; but as the words hung in the air between them, he knew that they had been sincere.

Lothíriel had paused in her folding, and now she spun around to look at him—half astonished, half defiant, as if she thought he might have been joking. Slowly, her expression shifted from suspicious to wary, and at last she gave a curt nod. "Thank you."

Éomer nodded back. For a moment they stood there, eyes locked, both of them seeming to forget what they were doing. Then Éomer blinked, Lothíriel returned to her folding, and he walked off in search of Gamling.


	8. Family Histories

**A/N:** Happy Labor Day, fellow Americans! Regardless of your nationality, I hope you've all had good summers. I'm just coming back from a two-week vacation (Scotland, absolutely beautiful, could have substituted for Middle-earth if New Zealand wasn't available) and I'm about to move, so I wanted to post this before things get hectic again. In general, updates have been slow lately because I'm trying to rebuild my ten-chapter gap between the chapter that's being posted and the chapter that's being written, meaning I'm actually writing two chapters for each update. Here's to hoping I catch up soon!

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

Lothíriel was not at dinner that night, and when Gúthwyn made a hesitating inquiry as to her whereabouts, Éomer said—rather unconvincingly—that she had gone to bed early. Since this was accompanied by a discreet nod at Elfwine, neither Gúthwyn nor Legolas asked further questions. She did, however, notice that the servants seemed to be hovering by their table longer than was necessary, as if hoping to overhear something, and she guessed that yet another argument had unfolded in public.

If Elfwine realized anything was amiss, he did not show it, and when the meal was over he acquiesced to Éomer's suggestion of bedtime with minimal complaining. Once he was gone and the servants had at last drifted out of earshot, Éomer withdrew a letter from his pocket and passed it to Gúthwyn.

She gave him a curious look before lowering her eyes to the parchment, where they fell upon the sentence _Amrothos attempted to kill himself this morning_. She could not help it: she gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

"Keep reading," Éomer murmured, casting a quick glance at the servants.

Heart pounding, Gúthwyn scanned the rest of Imrahil's letter. When she finished, she lowered her trembling hand and asked, "But _why_?"

Éomer shook his head, looking grim. "Legolas can read it also," he remarked after a moment, and Gúthwyn obligingly gave the letter to him, glad for the excuse to be rid of it.

Legolas did a better job of concealing his reaction, but she saw his eyes widen. "My condolences to Lothíriel," he murmured as he returned the letter.

"Thank you." Éomer sighed. "She is leaving tomorrow to go to Dol Amroth. I hope she is not too late—this will have happened several days ago at least."

Gúthwyn felt an unpleasant jolt race through her. Even as they sat there, discussing Amrothos's fate, he might already be dead. Trying not to think about this, she asked, "Will you be going with her?"

There was a slight pause before Éomer answered, "I think my appearance would cause needless discomfort. And besides"—he spoke as if something had just occurred to him—"Imrahil only asked Lothíriel to come."

"The messenger had no other information about Amrothos's condition?" Legolas asked after a moment. Gúthwyn saw that he was observing her out of the corner of his eye.

"No, and I doubt he was told much," Éomer replied. "Knowing Imrahil, he will not want the story to be spread, although I fear his court may be a lost cause. I expect it will be given out that Amrothos's unspecified illness has taken a turn for the worse—that is more or less what I have been telling people since the messenger's arrival."

"And what are you going to tell Elfwine?" Gúthwyn asked. Fortuitously, Elfwine had been outside with her and Legolas nearly all afternoon, and they had only returned to the Golden Hall for dinner; the Valar knew what he might have overheard otherwise.

"I see no reason for him to be informed of the details," Éomer said. "Perhaps he will learn the full story when he is older, but for now he need only know that Amrothos is sick, and that Lothíriel has gone to be with her family." His voice turned apologetic, and he added, "As a matter of fact, I should go speak to him before he has fallen asleep."

He left the table with a promise to return, and as he disappeared into the corridor, Legolas looked at Gúthwyn and asked, "Are you all right?"

He was watching her closely, and she swallowed before replying, "I just… I can only imagine how difficult it was for Elphir—and Erchirion—to find him." If it had been Éomer or Éowyn… She shuddered, unable to complete the thought, and wondered if Elphir's sleep was now haunted by nightmares.

Legolas nodded. "Aragorn told me that Imrahil has long been worried about him. It did strike me that he seemed unwell when… when he was in Minas Tirith."

"He did," Gúthwyn agreed, trying to keep her face impassive. Despite her own troubles that night, even she had noticed how skeletal Amrothos's formerly handsome features had become, how altered his mannerisms were from the careless swagger she remembered. "But I never would have thought…"

Her voice trailed off as she recalled how desperately Amrothos had sought to apologize to her, his increasingly frantic attempts to atone for what he had done to her in Éomer's stables. She had refused to listen to him, had not wanted anything to do with him…

She felt the weight of Legolas's penetrating gaze. "I hope you are not in any way blaming yourself for Amrothos's misfortune. None of us could have known."

"No, of course I do not blame myself, but…" Unsettled, she raised her head and looked directly at Legolas. "He tried to apologize to me in Minas Tirith, and I did not believe he meant it. But what if he did? What if he knew, even then, that he was… that he was going to put an end to it, and he was trying to… to make things right before he did?"

Legolas made a slight movement, as if to take her hand in his; with a soft sigh, he restrained himself. "Three years have passed since then," he reminded her gently. "Yet even if that was Amrothos's intent, even if his remorse was sincere, you are—and still are—under no obligation to forgive him."

"I-I know…" She was relieved to hear him say it, but a small part of her wondered if it were churlish to withhold absolution from a man on his deathbed. Amrothos had not acted on his own, after all… Lothíriel would have told him the same lies she had used on Elphir…

"Amrothos's troubles, grievous though they are, are of his own making," Legolas said; he seemed to have guessed her thoughts. "It is not in your power to help him, and you do not owe him the attempt."

"I know," Gúthwyn repeated, her voice stronger. Legolas was right: she had not driven Amrothos to hang himself, and it was beyond her means to fix whatever had broken inside of him.

And yet… Disturbing images continued to swirl inside her mind. She pictured a door bursting open, Elphir running inside with Erchirion on his heels, their faces freezing in shock and horror as they beheld Amrothos… and then, from some deep place in her memory, something else: a knife flashing as it was raised and lowered; an overwhelming rush of self-loathing and humiliation, and the desire to make it all go away; a voice piercing the darkness, asking what she was doing.

"Gúthwyn?"

She jumped in her seat. For a foolish moment, she thought Borogor would be there, his warm brown eyes regarding her curiously. But Borogor had died over a decade ago, and it was blue eyes that were now watching.

"I-I am sorry," she said, taking a deep breath—she did not wish to share these recollections with Legolas. "Can we talk about something else?"

With one last piercing look, Legolas assented, and before long they were discussing Gimli's endeavors at Helm's Deep, wondering if their Dwarven friend had opened any new caverns. Yet Gúthwyn was uneasily aware that, once again, she had failed to be truthful with Legolas; once again, she had broken the promise she had made to him at their reunion. He had asked for honesty, and for open communication between them, and she had unthinkingly agreed…

She tried to ignore these unwelcome thoughts, but they persisted, and long did she lie awake that night, her mind filled with taut ropes and glittering knives.

* * *

Elfwine would never tell anyone, because he wanted to be brave like Papa, but sometimes he wished he still slept in Mama's room. Mama and Papa said that he was too old now and he needed to have his own space, but there had been enough space in Mama's room. His new room was big and quiet, and he always had to check under the bed to make sure no monsters were hiding beneath it.

When Papa told him to go to sleep after dinner, he walked slowly by Mama's door, wondering if she was there. Papa said she had not eaten with them because she was tired, but he had a funny look on his face and Elfwine was not sure if he was telling the truth. But where else would Mama be?

He pressed his ear to her door, but he did not hear anything, and there was no light shining through the crack at his feet. If Mama was there, she was asleep, and he knew he was not supposed to wake her up. With a sigh, he pulled away and continued walking towards his new room.

But someone had already opened the door, and there was light coming out of it into the hallway. Hearing voices, Elfwine tiptoed forward, his heart thumping as he imagined all sorts of monsters.

"I swear, this boy must go slithering around on his front like a serpent!"

Elfwine thought he recognized the voice; sure enough, when he peered around the door he saw Cwene. She was older than Mama's other maids, but he liked her the best—sometimes when she brought food for Mama, she gave him toast with extra butter on it, and she winked at him to show that it was their secret. He had a feeling that she and Mama did not like each other very much, but he was not sure why.

Right now, Cwene was holding up one of his shirts and showing it to another maid, Elflede. "My son was the same way—and he has hardly gotten better, mind you, but I make him wash his own shirts now."

Elflede did not seem interested in hearing about shirts. "Do you think the queen's brother is going to die?" she asked, straightening out the blankets on the bed.

Unnoticed by either of them, Elfwine shuffled closer to the door, his eyes widening.

"No one has said anything about dying," Cwene replied, giving Elflede a stern look. "I better not hear you encouraging such speculation among the others."

"But she is going to see him," Elflede answered quickly. "And she has never gone back to Dol Amroth before. So that must mean—"

"Never you mind what it means."

The two women were quiet for a moment, and Elfwine's stomach started to feel queasy. Was Mama really leaving?

"But she has three brothers," Elflede went on, "so which one is it? I hope not Prince Elphir, he was ever so handsome. I always thought it was a shame that he and Lady Gúthwyn ended their engagement—"

"Lady Gúthwyn is quite happy without him, I would imagine," Cwene snapped. "He was very unkind to her during that awful visit. Not at all princely, if you ask me."

After a pause, Elflede said, "Maybe it is Amrothos."

Cwene made a noise that sounded like the one she made when Elfwine brought in mud with his boots. "Well, far be it from me to wish misfortune upon another—but—after what he did to Lady Gúthwyn—"

Elfwine waited anxiously to hear what Uncle Amrothos had done to Auntie Gúthwyn, but all Cwene said was, "I think that is quite enough idle chatter for one evening. Is the prince's bedding sorted? I have his clothes—Béma knows where all this dirt comes from…"

Her voice was getting closer, and Elfwine realized he would be caught eavesdropping if he did not hide. He backed away and hurried to Papa's room, where the door was open a little; squeezing through into the darkness, he hid behind a chair and held his breath.

Cwene and Elflede walked right by without noticing him, and when he could no longer hear their footsteps he crept back to his room. Even though he was supposed to change into his nightclothes, he did not want to. Instead he sat on his bed, wondering what Uncle Amrothos had done to Auntie Gúthwyn and why Uncle Elphir did not like her.

He tried to remember Uncle Amrothos, but he could not—Mama said he had been too busy to come to Minas Tirith when they went to see Papa, and before that he had only visited when Elfwine was very little. But Uncle Elphir had been there with Grandfather Imrahil, and he had told Elfwine that he was an excellent bowman. He had seemed nice… but how could he be if had treated Auntie Gúthwyn badly?

"Elfwine?"

Papa was standing in the doorway. Elfwine thought he was going to be in trouble for not changing, but Papa did not seem angry.

"There is something I need to tell you," Papa began, and that was when Elfwine remembered the worst of what Cwene and Elflede had said.

"Is Mama leaving?" he demanded, trying not to cry.

"Who told you that?"

"I heard someone say it," Elfwine mumbled. He hoped Papa would not ask him who—he did not want to get Cwene in trouble after all the toast she had made him.

But Papa did not ask. He sighed, muttered something that sounded like, "Of course, the servants," and came over to sit next to Elfwine on the bed. "Yes, your mother is going to visit her family in Dol Amroth. Her brother, your Uncle Amrothos, is ill."

"What is wrong with him?"

Papa had another funny look. "He has been in poor health for a long time, and now he has gotten worse."

"Is he going to die?"

"We must all hope for his recovery," Papa said—but something was wrong with his voice, like he did not really mean it. "Your mother may be gone for several weeks. She will send word when she is ready to return."

"Can I go with her?"

"No, you will stay here with me."

"But I want to go!" Mama had told him all about the ocean—it had waves, which was when the water came up and fell back down again, and all sorts of creatures swam in it, like giant fish with eight legs and slippery fish with no legs at all. Mama said if you looked carefully, you could find shells, and sometimes the shells were shaped like stars. She had promised Elfwine that he would see it one day.

But Papa did not listen. "Your mother will not have time to watch over you—she will be too busy with her brother. You would only be getting in everyone's way."

"But—"

"Elfwine, I am not arguing with you about this." Papa's eyes had gotten very dark, and Elfwine knew that no matter what he said, he would not be allowed to see the ocean.

Swallowing, he asked, "What did Uncle Amrothos do to Auntie Gúthwyn?"

"What?" Papa went still. "Who told you that?"

"Did he hurt her?"

"Answer my question. Who told you that?" Papa was not yelling—sometimes he did, especially when he was angry at Mama—but he was holding Elfwine's shoulder too tightly and he could not move. "Well?"

Elfwine knew he was not supposed to lie, but he did not want Papa to get mad at Cwene; and besides, grown-ups always lied to _him_. "It was one of Mama's maids," he mumbled, looking at Papa's shoulder instead of his face. "But I do not know who it was because I was hiding."

"You were— _Have I raised you to skulk around corridors eavesdropping?_ "

"No, Papa," Elfwine whispered, his eyes filling with tears—Papa was really hurting his shoulder now. He hoped he was not going to have his bow taken away again.

"Were you not punished in Minas Tirith for listening to my conversation with your aunts?"

"Yes, Papa." But Elfwine was not sorry he had done that—otherwise Papa and Auntie Éowyn would never have known how to reach Uncle Leggy, and Auntie Gúthwyn would still be sad.

"Then surely," Papa continued, his jaw twitching, "an intelligent boy such as yourself ought to have realized by now not to do it again?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Then why are you still doing it?"

Elfwine hesitated, then replied, "They said Mama's brother was going to die."

Papa's hold on him loosened; he closed his eyes, then opened them again. "We do not know what is going to happen to your Uncle Amrothos. Grandfather Imrahil will have the best healers taking care of him."

"What did he do to Auntie Gúthwyn?"

Papa looked at him very closely, and Elfwine stared back, even though it hurt his eyes. Finally, Papa sighed and muttered, "You are as stubborn as your mother."

Elfwine blinked; he was not sure if Papa meant this as a good thing.

Papa sighed again. "It was many years ago," he said, and Elfwine held his breath, listening. "You had just had your first birthday, and your mother's family came to see you. Amrothos did something… very wrong to Gúthwyn, something he should not have done."

"But what did he do?" Elfwine pressed, worried about Auntie Gúthwyn. What if she was hurt? He still did not remember Uncle Amrothos, but he did remember Auntie Gúthwyn being scared sometimes—was that because of Uncle Amrothos?

"That is not for your ears," Papa told him sternly. "And I forbid you to ask anyone about this, especially Gúthwyn. She would be very upset if you were to remind her of what Amrothos did. Do you understand me? You are not to trouble her."

Elfwine nodded. Even though he wanted to know what had happened, he did not want to make Auntie Gúthwyn sad again. Last time she had been sad for so long, he thought she would stay that way forever, but then Uncle Leggy came back.

"Do you promise?" Papa's grip tightened again.

"I promise, Papa. But… is Auntie Gúthwyn better now?"

"Yes," Papa said, looking relieved. "Amrothos cannot bother her anymore."

The thought of anyone trying to hurt Auntie Gúthwyn made Elfwine curl his fists. "I hope he is really sick. I hope he _dies_."

"You should not wish ill upon your family members," Papa said, but he did not sound like he was angry until he added, "And if I ever hear you say that to your mother, you will not be allowed near the archery range until you are eighteen."

Eighteen! Eighteen was so old. "Yes, Papa," he muttered, wondering if Mama knew what Uncle Amrothos had done. Mama never liked Auntie Gúthwyn, and Auntie Gúthwyn did not like her either, even though both of them pretended to when Elfwine was around. Would Mama be glad if Auntie Gúthwyn was hurt?

He did not want to ask Papa about that. Instead, he thought of something else Cwene and Elflede had said. "Is it true that Auntie Gúthwyn and Uncle Elphir used to be engaged?"

Papa said a bad word under his breath. "Yes, at one point they were. Like I said, this was a long time ago, and—"

"Is that why Uncle Elphir does not like her anymore? Because of what Uncle Amrothos did?" Elfwine tried to remember if he had seen Uncle Elphir and Auntie Gúthwyn together in Gondor, but he could not. He thought Auntie Gúthwyn had come to watch him at the archery range once, and Uncle Elphir had been there with Alphros, but then Uncle Elphir had left because he needed to talk to someone. Maybe he had really left because he did not want to talk to Auntie Gúthwyn.

Papa's jaw was twitching again. "That is correct—Elphir mistakenly believes that she is at fault for his brother's actions. He could not be more wrong."

Elfwine scowled. He decided he did not like Uncle Elphir either, if he was going to be so stupid. "Is that why other people do not like Auntie Gúthwyn?"

"What do you mean by that?" Papa had gone still again.

"Uncle Faramir said that people in Gondor do not like Auntie Gúthwyn," Elfwine reminded him. Haiweth had been angry at Auntie Gúthwyn but he was not sure why, and then she had said Uncle Leggy was allowed to be in Auntie Gúthwyn's bedroom, and all the grown-ups were upset even though Elfwine did not understand what was so bad about going to someone else's bedroom—Papa would not tell him that, either.

Papa sighed. He was doing that a lot. "I suppose you are old enough to start noticing these things. There are, unfortunately, some who believe everything they hear, including ill-founded rumors and malicious gossip."

"What did they hear about Auntie Gúthwyn?" Elfwine did not know anyone who would say something bad about Auntie Gúthwyn, except Mama before Papa got mad at her.

Papa hesitated, and Elfwine had a feeling that he was going to lie, or say something that was only a little true. "They believe she should not be taking care of Hammel and Haiweth, since she is not married and they do not have a father."

"But their papa is dead," Elfwine said slowly; Auntie Gúthwyn had told him that.

"Yes, he is."

Elfwine was not sure what to think of that—it seemed a silly reason to be mad at Auntie Gúthwyn. After all, where else would Hammel and Haiweth live? But sometimes he did not understand grown-ups, and maybe this was one of them.

"But Auntie Gúthwyn is going to marry Leggy," he said after a moment, brightening—he knew Leggy would fix everything. "So then Leggy can be Hammel and Haiweth's papa, and everyone will like her again."

Papa gave him a smile that was strange, like he was tired. "Yes, I hope so. But in the meantime, I do not want you to repeat any of this to your aunt. She has already received enough hurtful comments from others—she does not need to hear them from you. Do you understand?"

Elfwine nodded. He would not say anything to Auntie Gúthwyn if it meant she would stay happy. "Is that why Uncle Amrothos was mean to her? Because of Hammel and Haiweth?"

He thought Papa was going to say yes, but instead he said something Elfwine did not understand at all. "Amrothos is—or was—used to having his way with women. He made the mistake of thinking your aunt was like the others."

"What—"

"And now it is past your bedtime." Papa's voice meant no arguing. "You will need to be up early tomorrow to say goodbye to your mother."

For a moment, Elfwine forgot about Uncle Amrothos. "Is she coming back?" What if Mama decided she liked it better in Dol Amroth, away from Papa, and never returned?

Papa squeezed his shoulder again, but this time it did not hurt. "Of course she is. She belongs here. With you."

"And you, too?" Elfwine asked, looking up at him.

It took a few seconds, but then Papa nodded. "And me. Goodnight, Elfwine."

"Goodnight, Papa."

When the door closed, Elfwine finished getting ready for bed, then blew out the last candle and crawled under the covers. There he lay, wide awake, turning over everything Papa had told him and carefully saving it for later. Last of all, he remembered the way Papa had looked when he said _And me_ ; and it was this image, its meaning uncertain, that stayed in Elfwine's thoughts until at last he fell asleep.


	9. Letting Go

**Chapter Nine**

Lothíriel left for Dol Amroth the following morning, accompanied by an escort of a dozen guards and two of her maids. Each soldier was carrying extra gear for the White Mountain passes, and all of them had brought thick cloaks—even this late in the season, there was still the possibility of encountering snow.

Such was the queen's haste that Gúthwyn did not have the chance to say so much as "good morning" to her before she left, an oversight that was perhaps intentional on both sides. She watched from the stairs as Lothíriel embraced Elfwine, then exchanged a stiff farewell with Éomer, who seemed not to know if he should hug her or kiss her cheek and in the end did neither.

Once the last of the horses passed through the city gates, Elfwine decided that he wanted to observe them from the watchtower, and since Éomer had a meeting it was Legolas who volunteered to go with him. Off they went, Legolas at a slight jog to keep up with Elfwine's frenzied sprint, Éomer shouting after Elfwine not to knock anyone over.

Gúthwyn followed them down the main road, intending to catch up later; first, she would stop by the blacksmith's and see if Magar, Aldeth's father, was available. Over the last couple of weeks she had made several attempts to drop in on him, each time foiled by a lingering customer or by Magar having gone into his house—and she had no desire to cause a spate of new rumors by disappearing behind closed doors with a widower. What she needed was for him to be in the forge, alone, so she could interrogate him about Hammel without the risk of interruption.

The forge was attached to Magar house, and peculiarly oriented: instead of opening out onto the street, it was turned so that anyone wishing to step inside would have to walk around to the back. There were in fact only two walls—one that was shared with the house, and one that faced the street, shielding Magar from the glances of passersby as he worked—but although the side visible from Meduseld was open, Magar had blocked it with a series of tables and benches, making it plain that he did not welcome idle visitors.

Praying that there would be no customers today, Gúthwyn cautiously approached from the side and surveyed the interior. For once, she was in luck: Magar was bent over the anvil, hammering a piece of iron into what looked like the beginnings of a sword. Even stooped over, he was a tall man, with broad shoulders that would make someone think twice about challenging him. Most of his grizzled hair had been shorn off, presumably to keep it out of his face while he worked, and his skin and clothes were coated in a thin sheen of grime.

She had hoped for an unobserved moment to catch her bearings—even from where she stood, it was uncomfortably hot, reminding her of the days she had spent in Isengard—but somehow, over the clanking of metal against iron, Magar heard her and glanced up.

"Lady Gúthwyn," he said, silver-grey eyes meeting hers. He did not look surprised to see her there. "Come around the back. What can I do for you?"

She did not waste time with pleasantries; like many of her people, Magar preferred directness to delicacy. "I wanted to talk to you about Hammel."

Magar nodded, as if he had guessed as much. "Just a minute," he said, gesturing to the glowing iron in his hand. "I need to finish this before it sets."

While he worked, Gúthwyn used the time to gather her thoughts, to decide how best to raise her concerns. She did not want to sound overly accusing, but at the same time she was astonished that she had never told her he was letting Hammel do odd jobs for him, and she felt as if he had betrayed her in some way, from one parent to another.

When he was done, and had set the blade aside to cool, she waited until she could see his eyes and asked, "How long has Hammel been working for you?"

Magar could have given Cobryn a run for his money—there was no flicker of expression as she spoke, nothing in the way of alarm nor guilt. "He told you, then?"

"What?" Caught off-guard by his lack of remorse, Gúthwyn gaped at him for a few seconds before she collected herself. "No, it was Aldeth, but that is not the point—why did I not hear it from you?"

Magar folded his arms—not menacingly, but not in a way that invited confidences, either. "He asked me not to say anything. I saw no harm in it."

Incredulous, Gúthwyn retorted, "That was not your decision to make!"

"He was insistent."

"Never mind how insistent he was! He is my… my responsibility…" Gúthwyn faltered—she had almost said _my child_ , and she was sure Magar had noticed. Trying to cover up her mistake, she added, "And if our roles had been reversed, I would have done you the courtesy of telling you where Aldeth was spending all her time!"

Her rising voice had little to no effect on him; it was as if he were a rock protruding from the ocean, she a wave dashing itself to pieces against this greater, immovable force. When she had fallen silent, he said, "I did not know who he was at first."

 _What does that matter?_ she wanted to shout at him, and she almost did—but something told her that if she interrupted, she would have a much harder time getting information out of him.

"He used to sit out here," Magar said, gesturing towards the back of the shop. Even though she had just come in that way, Gúthwyn had been so focused on confronting the blacksmith that she had paid little attention to her surroundings. Now she looked and saw a bare stretch of dirt, just wide enough for a cart to pass through, before the ground dropped and became a rocky slope. From it, one would have a sweeping view of the surrounding plains, not to mention the comings and goings of the shop, but the main street was almost completely obscured. It was a lonely place, and nowhere for a boy to be playing.

"I thought he was up to something," Magar continued, "so I kept an eye on him. But usually he had a book with him, and he got out of my way when deliveries or customers came, so I let him be. I saw him, once, getting teased by a group of boys his age, and I figured he was trying to stay out of their sights."

He paused, as if expecting Gúthwyn to speak, but her throat had closed up. Was this what Hammel had been doing whenever she was at the training grounds, thinking she could leave the children to their own devices because they were no longer in Mordor? Unable or unwilling to make friends, skulking behind the blacksmith's to avoid all human contact?

"Soon I noticed he was watching me half the time, especially when I had something over the fire. Before then, I had hardly managed to get a word out of him, but one day he asked how I made the furnaces so hot. And after that, he had hundreds of questions, until finally I told him that if he was going to keep tugging my ear, he might as well make himself useful."

"You put him to work for you?" Gúthwyn asked, not knowing whether to be amused or annoyed.

"I gave him simple chores any child could do—had him sweep the floors, clean some old tools gathering dust, fetch things from the shelves if I needed them. I thought he would eventually get tired of it and go back to playing on the street, but he never did, never said a word of complaint. I asked him if his parents minded him being here so often, and he told me they were fine with it."

Furious, Gúthwyn opened her mouth, but Magar cut her off with a sharp look. "I knew he was lying. He always hid when customers came into the shop—plainly he did not want anyone to see him there. But it was not until Aldeth told me that I found out he belonged to you. So I asked him, and still he insisted that you were not to know, that you would never understand."

Gúthwyn began to protest, but Magar held up his hand. "He was at that age where they begin keeping secrets—I once caught Aldeth trying to burn her bedsheets in my furnace when her courses started. So I told him I would not lie to you if you asked, but otherwise I would keep my mouth shut."

 _And you never asked._ He did not say it, but Gúthwyn heard it—and shame pooled through her, for he would have been right. Hammel had always returned to the Golden Hall in time for meals, and he had never missed one of his sword lessons; in between, she had assumed he was off reading books, and she had never thought to question what else he might be doing.

As angry with herself as she was at the blacksmith, she cried, "You should have told me anyway! Never mind what he wanted, he was a child, you had no right—"

"And if I had told you, he would have stopped coming, and then where would he have gone? Back to play with the boys who were mocking him? To hole up inside all day with one of those books? How would that have been in his best interests, hm?" When Gúthwyn could not form a response, he shook his head. "Whatever quarrel lies between the two of you, it is none of my business. His reasons are his own, you will have to take it up with him."

"Yes, I can see that," she said stiffly. "Well, then, I suppose I ought to thank you for keeping an eye on him, though I would have preferred to have been informed of his whereabouts. I will not pretend to think you made the right decision, or that it was even your decision to make."

Magar nodded, and she suspected it did not matter to him one way or another what she pretended to think, which only irritated her further. But it was no use arguing with him—she already knew he would not be swayed, and getting into a heated dispute with the sole blacksmith in Edoras would put Éomer in an awkward position.

"Father, I—" Aldeth's voice rose as she opened the door leading from the house to the shop, only to come to a precipitous halt when she noticed their visitor. "Lady Gúthwyn!" she exclaimed, looking oddly flustered as she dropped into a curtsy. "I did not know you were here."

"Hello, Aldeth. I was just passing by." Gúthwyn's smile, though strained, was sincere—here, at least, was one person who was not hiding anything from her.

Aldeth glanced at her father, but Magar's expression was quite inscrutable. "I just made lunch," she said hesitantly. "Would you like to join us?"

Under different circumstances, Gúthwyn would have leaped at the chance to get to know the woman Hammel had set his heart on, but Magar's presence made her reconsider. "Thank you for your kind offer, but I was just going to find my nephew. Perhaps another time?" _When it is just the two of us._

Aldeth seemed disappointed, but she covered it up with another curtsy. Gúthwyn exchanged a rather stilted set of farewells with Magar, then left the shop, unable to resist looking at the place where Hammel had once hidden from his tormentors. The small, barren strip of land was like a silent reproach, the culmination of all her failures as a parent.

Passing others on the street, she returned their waves with a small smile, but she did not slow down to speak to anyone. All her thoughts were on Hammel, reconstructing his past, wondering what she was still missing after all these years. Why had he not wanted her to know that he was spending time with the blacksmith? Had he already hated her by then, or had there been another reason? How long ago had she lost his confidence, not realizing until it was too late?

Her disquieted musings brought her to the city gates; there she halted and looked up at the walls, shading her face against the sun. At first she thought Legolas and Elfwine had returned to Meduseld, but then she caught a glimpse of uncovered golden hair in the tower above. Pushing aside her worries about Hammel, at least until she could talk to Cobryn, she tightened her cloak against the wind and began climbing.

As she neared the top step, she saw Legolas and Elfwine standing close together, Elfwine on tiptoes in order to see over the wall. Yet Lothíriel and her guard must have long ago disappeared from view, for Elfwine's attention was turned to Legolas.

"Do you know my uncle Amrothos?" Gúthwyn heard him ask.

"I only met him twice," Legolas said quietly.

Elfwine lowered his heels, then looked back up at Legolas. "Do you like him?"

Although Elfwine had no idea what had transpired between her and Amrothos, his questions were making Gúthwyn uneasy, and she thought it would be best to spare Legolas from answering.

"There you are," she said loudly, drawing their attention. Elfwine, she noticed, whirled around with a guilty start.

Legolas smiled when he saw her, but the slightest crinkle of his brow told her that he was relieved the conversation had been interrupted. "We were just about to head back. It must be almost time for lunch."

Elfwine seemed very enthusiastic about this prospect. "Can we go now?"

Gúthwyn and Legolas agreed, and Elfwine all but ran down the steps, pausing only to apologize after a near-collision with a guard.

"He was asking me about Amrothos," Legolas murmured as Elfwine's footsteps clattered below them.

"I heard, and that was why I spoke when I did," Gúthwyn admitted. "I know he is curious about everything, but I thought it best to end that particular line of inquiry."

"Yes, he is curious," Legolas said, slowing their progress down the stairs. "But he seemed—"

"Auntie Gúthwyn! Leggy!" Elfwine had stormed back up to find them, and now his eyes were narrowed—Gúthwyn could not tell if it was worry or suspicion that flickered within their depths. "What are you talking about?"

"Just lunch, little one," Gúthwyn said cheerfully. "I am quite hungry."

Elfwine seemed satisfied with this explanation, but he did not let them out of his sight for the rest of the way back to Meduseld, and there was no opportunity for Legolas to finish his sentence, nor for Gúthwyn to recount her conversation with Magar. But it was no matter—she would be able to confide in Legolas soon enough, and meanwhile a meal with him and her nephew sounded like the perfect antidote to a distinctly unsatisfying morning.

* * *

"No, I had no idea," Cobryn said later that afternoon when Gúthwyn told him about her visit to the blacksmith's. Legolas and Elfwine had gone to the archery range again, and she was taking advantage of her inquisitive nephew's absence to ask Cobryn if he had ever detected such an unusual relationship between Hammel and Magar.

"Well, perhaps that is not quite true," he amended at her beseeching look. "Like you, I noticed that he had developed an interest in blacksmithing. And a couple of times I did see him loitering near the shop, especially when he was younger. I always assumed it was because of Aldeth, but now it seems she was only part of the whole."

"A big part," Gúthwyn corrected. "I think he intends to marry her."

Cobryn did not seem surprised in the least by her assessment. "That would explain why Aldeth was so eager to invite you to lunch. If she is planning her future with him, she would want to make a good impression on you."

"She is saddling the wrong horse if she thinks it will matter to Hammel." If anything, Gúthwyn thought with a pang, Hammel would be furious that Aldeth was reaching out to the woman he so loathed.

Yet something occurred to her then. "Actually," she said to Cobryn, "I am not sure if Aldeth even realizes that he can barely tolerate me. I think he has made an effort to conceal that from her—Magar said Hammel was 'insistent' that I not find out what he was doing, but the way Aldeth spoke to me, it was clear that she thought I already knew."

"If he wants her to see the best in him, telling her about the appalling way he treats you would not promote his cause," Cobryn said grimly.

In a way, this made Gúthwyn feel better—at least she was not the only one to whom Hammel was lying. Moreover, this particular act of deception was to her benefit, as it meant that Aldeth would have no reason not to confide in her about Hammel's doings.

She shared this optimistic view with Cobryn, and was not surprised to see from his expression that he had already detected this flaw in Hammel's secrecy. "I think I will try to meet with her again," she said, her mind swirling with possibilities. "She did invite me to stay for lunch, and I said 'perhaps another time,' so if I waited until her father was away and just so happened to drop in on her… What?"

Cobryn was shaking his head. "If you are seen going to Aldeth's for lunch, and you will be seen, it will be tantamount to announcing that there is an engagement between Hammel and Aldeth, or at the very least that one is imminent. And even though that is what both of them appear to want, a premature confirmation on your part would be disastrous—especially for Aldeth—if something were to go wrong and the relationship dissolved."

"But—"

"Not to mention," Cobryn continued over her objections, "Aldeth would certainly tell Hammel about the encounter, and no doubt he would realize his mistake and find a way to prevent her from seeing you. I need hardly add that this would make him even more ill-tempered when you tell him and Haiweth about Legolas."

Gúthwyn's excitement began to wane. Once again, Cobryn was right. But to have Aldeth, who alone might be able to give her a glimpse into the life Hammel had worked so hard to conceal from her… who alone could tell her if he was happy, if he truly intended to become a blacksmith, or even just what he was reading at the moment… It was a bitter draught, having all this information at her fingertips and being unable to wring out every last drop.

"Well, I suppose I will just never speak to her again," she said glumly.

Cobryn raised an eyebrow. "That is not what I am suggesting."

"You just said—"

"I said you should not have lunch with her. But there are other, less obvious overtures you can make, which—if you are careful—might escape Hammel's notice."

"Like what?"

Cobryn lowered his voice as Mildwen walked by with a bundle of rags in her arms, humming to herself. "From what you have described, Aldeth seems like a well-intentioned girl. Your best bet is to be on friendly terms with her, so that when Hammel expresses his disapproval, she will have her own opinion of you instead of being guided by his. And then, perhaps, she might be willing to continue the acquaintance—although you may have to arrange to drop in on her when Hammel is not around."

"That sounds very manipulative," Gúthwyn said after a moment, wrinkling her nose. "You would have me use Aldeth as a pawn—nay, worse, a spy."

Cobryn raised his eyebrows. "And I suppose you wanted to have lunch with her for the sole pleasure of her company?"

Gúthwyn reluctantly conceded the point.

"But you did say she was kind to you," Cobryn continued in a gentler tone. "Given your dispositions, there is no reason why the two of you should not get along with each other. If you were to acknowledge her each time you passed her on the street, and occasionally stop to chat, I am sure she would be thrilled, and the relationship would develop with little exertion on your part."

It was a tempting scenario, albeit one that still seemed quite calculated to Gúthwyn. And yet, what choice did she have if she wished to remain informed of Hammel's doings? He had long ago stopped trusting Cobryn, and while he remained on better terms with Haiweth, he did not seem to confide in her very often.

"Of course," Cobryn said while she deliberated, "I would take care not to ask too many questions about Hammel, at least not at first, else she is likely to guess at your true purpose, and that would have the opposite effect intended."

Gúthwyn sighed. "Imagine how much simpler this would be if Hammel would only speak to me. Did you know that I have had not one letter from him since he went to Helm's Deep?" Cobryn nodded. "I wrote the first week he was gone, and he never responded."

"He is doing this because he is getting away with it," Cobryn reminded her.

"But what can I do? Yelling at him accomplishes nothing. Nor do attempts to reason with him. Éomer has threatened him enough that he knows to behave when they are in the same room, but that does not stop him from ignoring me any other time. I suppose I could… confiscate all his books and promise to give them back once his conduct improved, but I am certain he would abandon them out of spite, and then I would be even worse off than I was before."

There was a pause as she swallowed the lump in her throat and Cobryn watched her pityingly. At last, he said, "Hammel is an adult now. It might be time to let him go."

All the breath seemed to escape from her lungs. "What?"

"If he marries Aldeth, he will be leaving anyway. You know he will not come to the colony."

"He will," Gúthwyn insisted feebly. "For Haiweth."

"Do you really think that?" Cobryn countered, and she could not say she did. "It is about time he began to make his own way in the world."

Finally, she managed to speak. "No. It is too soon. He is still—he is still mine."

"He is not yours," Cobryn said. "He has not been yours for a long time. The sooner you accept this, the better."

A shiver fell over Gúthwyn, and she did not respond. Nothing could make her regret her sacrifices for the children, but it did not seem possible that things could have gone so wrong with Hammel, when everything she had done had been out of love for him and his sister. And to not know why, to lack even the slightest explanation, made it all a thousand times worse.

When she next saw Aldeth, she vowed, she was going to make a point of asking the girl about her day.


	10. Letters and Lies

**Chapter Ten**

Later that week, Gúthwyn found herself in possession of not one, not two, but five different letters of congratulation on her impending marriage. The first of these arrived at breakfast with a messenger from Emyn Arnen; Éowyn's was effervescent, full of hope for her and Legolas, and concluded with a promise not to discuss anything with Haiweth until Gúthwyn had had a chance to do so herself.

Faramir also expressed his delight in the union. _Long have I wished you joy,_ he wrote, _and it gladdens me to know that you have found it in a man (or an Elf!) such as Legolas, whose quality and strength of character few can match. May he give you peace, and may your days with him be filled with light._

Gúthwyn was unexpectedly moved by his words, and it was some time before she could attend to her meal. At lunch, however, she was distracted by Éomer handing her two more letters, both bearing the royal seal of Gondor. And before she could open either of these, a messenger arrived from Helm's Deep, carrying one envelope for her and another for Éomer.

"You are quite popular today, baby sister," Éomer said in equal parts amusement and bewilderment. "Legolas, you also have something, here…"

Gúthwyn did not answer—her heart had spiked, thinking the letter from Helm's Deep might be from Hammel, only to plummet when she recognized Gimli's handwriting.

"I am afraid this is my doing," Legolas said as Elfwine peered over Gúthwyn's shoulder, trying to see who had written to her. "I told Aragorn and Gimli the news, though I impressed upon them that it was not yet common knowledge."

For a moment, a shadow crossed his face, swift and fleeting as a cloud across the sun; but Gúthwyn, already opening the envelope from Gimli, did not notice.

"Elfwine, it is not polite to read someone else's letter," Éomer said sharply, and Elfwine pulled back with a sigh of disappointment. Gúthwyn glanced up long enough to give him a gentle smile before returning her attention to Gimli's sturdy, angular penmanship.

Like Éowyn and Faramir, he began with congratulations and well wishes for the future. _It took that stubborn Elf long enough, but finally he came to his senses. Much of this trouble could have been avoided, naturally, if he had listened to me two years ago when I told him to make his feelings known to you, though I do not seek acknowledgment for my foresight._

Gúthwyn grinned: she could imagine Gimli's voice with perfect clarity, as if he were sitting right next to her and listing his grievances with an exaggerated air of injury.

 _However, there are others who may be more inclined to appreciate my wisdom, and—if I am I right in thinking you are among them—I have a few humble words of advice to offer, specifically concerning King Thranduil. Having been a guest at his table on numerous occasions, I can assure you that his bite is every bit as strong as his bark, but know this: he cares greatly for Legolas, and if Legolas is happy with you (which, of course, he will be), he will learn to tolerate you. I am afraid there is little you can do to win that proud Elf over, and you should not feel discouraged if you do not succeed._

Gúthwyn privately thought there was no "if" about it—she had no expectations of developing any relationship with Thranduil, save for an uncomfortable sort of armistice between infrequent dining companions. Her only hope was that Thranduil would not be so cruel to her as he had been before, now that he had grudgingly resigned himself to her union with Legolas, and according to Gimli this seemed to be a possibility.

Aragorn's letter also included counsel, albeit not regarding Thranduil. _If marriage is a garden,_ _then love is not the only flower, and it is important not to neglect the others: friendship, goodwill, and trust. Of these, it is trust which takes the longest to nurture, and which requires the most care; yet without it, the garden will wither. Secrets will spread like weeds, choking out all other growth—those from the past often the most insidious, because their roots are buried deep. Yank them out into the light and do not let them fester._

Gúthwyn felt increasingly uneasy as she read this, and she was careful to keep the letter slanted away from Legolas and Elfwine. Was it her imagination, or was Aragorn urging her to tell Legolas about her time in Mordor? Did he know more than she thought, or had he merely guessed at the horrors she had endured there? And if she chose not to tell Legolas, would he do so himself out of loyalty to his friend?

It was with great trepidation that she opened Arwen's letter—after all, there was no one else closer in Aragorn's counsels. Skipping past the opening round of congratulations, she scrutinized the second paragraph, which read:

 _Now that you will be at the colony with Legolas, we shall once again be neighbors, and there will be many occasions for us to visit each other. As our husbands are fast friends, so I hope we shall be. I am looking forward to many an outing with your dear sister Éowyn!_

Arwen's overtures, sweet though they seemed on parchment, left a foul taste in Gúthwyn's mouth. She felt, for no real reason that she could articulate, and certainly none that the Elven queen had ever given to her, that she was being collected, and that she and Éowyn were two parts of a prized set. _Your dear sister_ , indeed!

She imagined all the times Éowyn and Faramir had visited the White City over the years, Arwen bending her head towards Éowyn at the dinner table, the two of them retiring afterwards to discuss whatever it was that wives talked about when their husbands were elsewhere. There had been many nights like this during the campaign against Harad; they had always invited Gúthwyn, but she had never been in the mood for company. It was Haiweth who had leaped when beckoned, Haiweth who had hung onto their every word…

 _Haiweth, not me,_ she realized suddenly, staring down at Arwen's letter through a haze of suspicion. The queen had already tried once to recruit Haiweth as her handmaiden, and no doubt she was only waiting for the right moment to ask again, when it would look churlish for Gúthwyn to refuse. And Éowyn agreed with Arwen—she could picture them talking behind her back, one of them suggesting that she might be more pliable if she spent more time in the city, if it could be made less unfamiliar to her. Maybe they had even consulted Haiweth, for Gúthwyn had been so foolish as to permit Éowyn to bring her to Minas Tirith.

"Auntie Gúthwyn?"

She jumped, and found herself looking into her nephew's puzzled eyes. "Yes, little one?"

"What did King Elessar and Queen Arwen say?" Elfwine asked, though she could not tell which had made him more curious—the letters, or her own behavior.

She could not help but glance at Legolas, wondering if he also had perceived something amiss in her expression, but to her relief he appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. Turning back to Elfwine, she forced a smile and folded up Arwen's letter. "I do not think you will find it terribly interesting," she said apologetically. "They wrote to congratulate me and Legolas."

As she had predicted, Elfwine's attention was not to be sustained by such mundane matters, and he quickly changed the subject to his afternoon plans with Onyveth. To her surprise, however, Legolas did not participate in the conversation; he seemed to be preoccupied, and only when Elfwine left to find Onyveth did he come back to himself and wave farewell.

Éomer left the table not long after, informing them that he had a meeting with Gamling; Gúthwyn waited until he was out of earshot before asking Legolas what was wrong.

He hesitated. "It is a small matter, and I am being foolish in giving it much thought."

"If it is troubling you enough to give it much thought, then surely it is not foolish."

Legolas smiled at that, but his gaze remained troubled. "I suppose you have not received a letter from my father? With any sort of congratulations?"

"No," Gúthwyn said in bewilderment. "Why?"

Legolas sighed. "Maybe it is nothing. I wrote to him once we were reunited—but the news may not have reached him until recently. And yet he knew that I was coming here, and that this time I was certain of success. He could have… yet perhaps he decided to await my word."

He was speaking lightly, as if it were of trifling consequence whether or not Thranduil had written, but Gúthwyn could tell it meant a great deal to him, and he desired assurance that his father would at least pretend to welcome her into the family. She suddenly hoped, though not for herself, that a messenger was riding from Eryn Lasgalen as they spoke.

"That must be what he has done," she said, wishing they were alone in the hall so she could take his hand. "There were so many misunderstandings between us"—she refrained from mentioning Thranduil's role in those misunderstandings—"and we were always being driven apart. He must want confirmation before he ventures any communication, which is prudent. Once your letter reaches him, he will write back."

Neither of them truly believed it, but Legolas looked at her with gratitude, and she suspected he might have been more demonstrative had there not been any servants nearby. Thereafter he seemed determined to put the conversation behind them, and he inquired about her plans for the rest of the day. They agreed to go on a walk down the main road, perhaps venturing down one or two of the smaller streets to see if they could catch a glimpse of Elfwine and Onyveth.

By the time they left the Golden Hall, Legolas's calm demeanor had been restored, and he devoted all his attention to their stroll—but Gúthwyn knew that his father's silence would not be so easily dismissed, and each day that went by without word from Eryn Lasgalen would be marked and remembered.

* * *

Three weeks later, the colors on Amrothos's neck had faded from the blues and purples of a thunderstorm at sea to the sickly greens and yellows of withering grass. Erchirion could not bear the sight, and during his watches he drew a blanket over it—but Elphir's gaze was drawn to it like a fish on a hook, and ever he wondered if Amrothos had felt anything or if he had already been unconscious by then.

No one knew when, or if, Amrothos would awake. In those first hours, of which Elphir could only remember nightmarish fragments, they had thought he would not last until sundown. When he did, they held their breath throughout that night, expecting each dark moment to be his last—but then morning had come, and still he slept, still he lived.

Yet he had never opened his eyes. Despite the healers' valiant efforts, he lingered in this state, neither rousing at their voices nor succumbing to death. They kept him alive by trickling equal measures of water and broth down his throat—only the smallest spoonful at a time. Every other hour, a healer emptied out the pan in his bed.

If the old Amrothos could see what this Amrothos had been reduced to, Elphir was certain he would have asked them to kill him on the spot. It was unbearable, watching him be treated like an infant; Erchirion could not endure it, and when the healers came he left the room or turned away to stare blindly at the sea. But Elphir and Imrahil forced themselves to watch, and in the worst moments Elphir would look across the bed and see his own horror and despair mirrored in his father's eyes.

There were no healers in the room now; it was just Elphir and Amrothos, the latter lying motionless in bed, propped up by an intricate arrangement of pillows. All of the windows were open—Erchirion insisted it would comfort Amrothos, and neither Elphir nor Imrahil had the strength to argue—and the sounds of the distant sea mingled with Amrothos's labored breathing.

Elphir was half keeping vigil, half dosing. Ever since that awful day, he had scarcely been able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. In his dreams, he ran up endless flights of stairs, desperate to reach Amrothos but never getting closer to his destination—only to abruptly fly through a door and discover he was too late. Then he awoke, drenched in sweat, fumbling for the covers so he could cast them off and check on his brother.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, for he jerked upright when the door opened, and he saw that the light from the windows had moved to different parts of the bedroom. His blinking eyes fell upon Lothíriel, who was directing a servant with a tray. The hour for lunch was over, and once again he had forgotten to eat.

"I brought some soup," Lothíriel announced, motioning for the servant to lower the tray onto the nearest table. "None of us are of any use to Amrothos if we cannot take care of ourselves."

She stated this matter-of-factly, without reproach, but Elphir knew her sharp eyes had seen how loose his and Erchirion's clothes were, how much greyer their father's hair had become. When she had first arrived, storming into the castle with a troop of exhausted-looking guards in tow, she had gone straight to Amrothos's side and stayed there for a full day and night; but she had realized, sooner than any of them save perhaps their father, that whether or not Amrothos awoke again was entirely out of their hands, and meanwhile there was little to be accomplished by waiting.

Without much protest from Imrahil, she had reasserted control over their household, as if she had not spent the past decade managing another. She marched down to the kitchens to arrange meals and market purchases; she wrangled with the servants over how often to change Amrothos's bedsheets; she fired off letters, scrutinized accounts, and consulted what must have been every book in the library pertaining to the treatment of illness. She even found the time to usher Alphros outside and accompany him on walks with Huan.

Elphir had not thought to ask Lothíriel how long she would be staying, and she had not volunteered this information. It occurred to him that she had rarely mentioned her home over the past week—at some point he had inquired about Elfwine, but he could hardly remember how she had responded, and Éomer's name had not come up at all.

"The soup is not going to eat itself, you know."

Drawn out of his reverie, Elphir saw Lothíriel raising her eyebrows at him. "You seem to enjoy ordering us around," he remarked, without venom, as he took the bowl and gazed with disinterest into its steaming depths.

Lothíriel made a noncommittal noise, then glanced at Amrothos. "He has not stirred." A statement, not a question.

Elphir shook his head. "Sometimes I fear…" He paused, then asked the question he knew he could not ask Erchirion. "What if he keeps going on like this? What if he never wakes up?"

The servant was long gone, but Lothíriel's eyes darted to the door, making sure they were alone. A rare trace of helplessness wound its way into her voice as she replied, "I cannot imagine… This is no life."

"No, it is not." A rush of misery swept through Elphir as he gazed at his brother: how could this be the same man who had once spent his nights carousing with women and wine, who had challenged him and Erchirion to contests of swimming, spear-throwing, and even fishing? Where had that Amrothos gone, and who was this stranger in his place? Why had he done this to himself, to them?

Lothíriel was quiet; she did not seem inclined to resume their conversation, as if by abandoning it they could pretend that they would never have to ask themselves if it was time for mercy. Instead they continued to watch Amrothos, Elphir silently pleading for him to wake up. Once he thought something in his brother's face had shifted, but it was only a trick of the light.

"Elphir?"

"Yes?"

Lothíriel hesitated, then asked, "I suppose you have not read your letter?"

There had been one for each of them, even Alphros. Elphir had kicked them aside in the heat of the moment, but someone, a healer or a servant, had gathered them up and brought them to Imrahil. Elphir knew Erchirion had read his, for he had wept all night afterwards; Lothíriel had opened hers the day of her return, though she had not revealed its contents to anyone. If Imrahil had also sought answers in his son's final words, he had not told them.

But Elphir had not so much as glanced at his. "I cannot bring myself to. Not until he is…" _Better_ , he had wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat. "I would rather he told me himself."

Lothíriel gave an odd sort of smile at this, as though she were holding back tears. "I thought not."

He did not ask how she had guessed, or what Amrothos had said to her in his letter; he did not want to know. It had been awful enough reading Alphros's, which he had done as Alphros cried himself to sleep in his arms. _I am sorry I was not a better uncle,_ Amrothos had written in a shaky hand. _When you were born, I imagined I was going to be your favorite Uncle Amro, and I was going to drive your father mad by letting you run wild when it was my turn to watch you and teaching you enough swear words to make a sailor blush. Instead I have spent most of your years being a drunkard. I am ashamed of how often you have seen me in this state, and how kindly you continue to treat me even though I have failed you in every way possible._

Elphir turned away from Lothíriel, so that she would not notice his face contorting, and stared unseeingly at Amrothos's limp form. For a long time, neither of them spoke, and he was able to regain his composure. Hoping to avoid further mention of the letters, he asked, "How go things in Rohan?"

He expected her to be evasive; she had not wanted to talk to him in Minas Tirith, when it had been shockingly apparent that she and Éomer were estranged despite their efforts to pretend otherwise. Yet even before that, it had been years since she had given her husband more than a passing mention in her letters. Elphir had assumed it was a tactful omission, considering the sour note on which he and Éomer had last parted, but the stay in Minas Tirith had convinced him that something else was wrong—although he was at a loss as to what had come between them.

"They are well." Lothíriel answered carefully, as if measuring her words in precise quantities. "We are making preparations for the winter fair. I told Father—although I know it may not be possible"—her eyes darted to Amrothos—"that I hope you will all be able to come."

Elphir had given little thought to what might lie beyond Amrothos's current state, but he nodded absently; perhaps Alphros would like to visit his aunt and cousin.

Lothíriel paused, then added, "Gúthwyn is living with us again."

Elphir's stomach tightened. He had seen her in Minas Tirith, accompanying Éowyn and Faramir to welcome Éomer back—they had even dined at Aragorn and Arwen's table together, although they had been seated well apart. She had not tried to approach him again, yet the mere sight of her had been enough to resurrect every memory, each more painful than the last.

Unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, he said, "I suppose she found the Gondorians to be less tolerant of her behavior than Éomer."

He had heard, of course, about the incident some years past—Lady Gúthwyn and Prince Amrothos caught in yet another compromising position, this time in a crowded ballroom. It was truly shameless, and somehow Gúthwyn had avoided blame by once again insisting that Amrothos had detained her against her will. And Imrahil, defying all reason, had swallowed her preposterous story.

"Yes, well." Lothíriel frowned. "If truth be told, I am surprise she lasted as long as she did."

Elphir was too wrapped up in his thoughts to respond. How many hours had he wasted on plans to show Gúthwyn around Dol Amroth, helping her learn to love his home in the way that he knew she loved Rohan? How many nights had he lain awake, imagining all that they would do together as husband and wife? Sailing in the Bay with Alphros, sparring with each other in the courtyard, making love in the moonlight as the sea whispered outside their bedroom window… What a fool he had been. How she must have laughed at him, waiting so patiently for her!

And then, in a determinedly casual voice, Lothíriel said, "She will be getting married at the end of this summer."

The surprise of it caught Elphir like a blow in the stomach, and for a moment he could only stare at his sister. Finally, he croaked out, "What? To whom? Not to that—is it Cobryn?" It had to be him—the supposed "friend" with unlimited access to her bedchamber, who woke her in the morning and slipped behind closed doors with her at night. Elphir could not imagine who else would have her.

"No, it is not him." Lothíriel seemed rather uncomfortable, and she could barely look Elphir in the eye. "It is Prince Legolas."

He almost thought it was a joke, but Lothíriel's expression said otherwise. " _Legolas_? The _Elf_?"

Lothíriel nodded, swallowing. "He has… had an attachment to her for many years."

Now Elphir was rummaging through a different set of memories, searching for any interactions between the two of them, wondering what signs he had missed. He thought he had seen them dancing together on one or two occasions, but he had always assumed the Elf was either ignorant of the rumors or merely being polite. He would never have guessed—for an Elf to take a mortal as a bride, and moreover one so plainly unsuitable as Gúthwyn—what madness had enthralled him?

"You never said anything," he finally managed to Lothíriel, who was watching him closely.

He could see the guilt in her eyes. "For a long time, I believed his attentions to her were unnoticed and unreturned," she tried to explain. "When she left for Ithilien, I would have sworn on oath that she did not consider him as anything more than a friend, and that he had no intention of making his feelings known. And I remembered that she had not always held him in esteem—when I first came to Edoras, I thought she hated him from the way she avoided him. It was very odd."

It was, but Elphir paid little attention to it—his mind was still reeling from the news, and his stomach was faring little better. He had spoken to Prince Legolas on only a couple of occasions, yet he had perceived in him a nobleness of bearing, a quiet yet unmistakable strength of character. Could this same Elf have been taken in by a woman who had whored herself out to half her brother's men?

Perhaps Elves did not care about such matters; perhaps they looked for other qualities in their spouses. Although he did not often allow himself to dwell on Gúthwyn's recommendations, he remembered how impressed he had been with her swordsmanship, her unaffected manners, and her kindness towards Alphros. Was that what Legolas saw, allowing him to turn a blind eye to all else?

But the truth could only be ignored for so long. On their wedding night, she would come to him not as a blushing bride, but as a wanton who knew exactly when to open her legs, when to reach for him, when to guide him inside of her…

Suddenly he felt sick. "I am going for a walk," he announced, setting aside his uneaten soup. Lothíriel glanced at him in surprise and tried to say something, but he strode out of the room and closed the door behind him. With no destination, only the desire to forget the images that had poisoned his mind, he began to walk.

He wandered aimlessly down halls and staircases, pausing every once in a while to look out a window at the ocean, yet drawing no comfort from its familiar presence. He had never regretted breaking off his betrothal with Gúthwyn, but to this day he could not understand how he had been so wrong about her, or how cruelly she had betrayed him with his own brother. It was a small consolation that he had discovered her true nature before being bound to her by marriage, and that she had not been able to bring her licentious ways to his court.

In those first few weeks after reading Lothíriel's letter to Amrothos, in which she had divulged Gúthwyn's behavior and begged Amrothos to inform him before it was too late, he had sometimes wished that he had never found out, that he could have carried on in ignorance until their wedding day. The woman described in Lothíriel's letter was so unlike the woman he admired, he almost could not reconcile them as the same person.

But he had seen her encouraging Éomer's men, surrounding herself with them and giving them her favor; holding hands with Cobryn in plain view of the entire city; pinned between Amrothos and a wall, her eyes closed as if in ecstasy while Amrothos stroked her breasts. The memories pursued him, sharp and cruel as the mountain wind, and he almost wanted to go back to Amrothos's room and help him finish what he had started…

"Elphir? Is something wrong?"

Elphir stopped in his tracks; for the first time in several minutes, he became aware of his surroundings. He had somehow wound up in the Princes' Gallery, a long hallway filled with portraits of the previous rulers of Dol Amroth. Standing before a painting of Galador was Imrahil, looking at him in concern.

"No, I was just—visiting Amrothos."

Imrahil sighed. "No change?" he asked, more out of habit than expectation.

Elphir shook his head. "Lothíriel is watching him now."

"It has been good to have her back this past week."

"It has." Elphir hesitated—Gúthwyn remained a sore subject between him and his father—but at length his curiosity got the better of him. In what he hoped was a casual tone, he asked, "I suppose you heard the news from Rohan?"

"Which news?"

Elphir could not tell if his father was sincerely unaware or if he knew and merely wanted Elphir to have to repeat it. Already regretting having spoken, he said in as offhand a voice as he could muster, "Apparently Lady Gúthwyn is marrying Prince Legolas."

"Oh, yes, I did hear about that. I was rather surprised." Imrahil fixed Elphir with a penetrating look, one he recognized all too well. "I hope you are not jealous?"

Elphir stiffened, and he fired back, "Of course not. What use have I for a woman who has so thoroughly exhausted her supply of Men, she must now move on to Elves?"

For a moment, he thought they would come to blows; the air between them crackled with tension, like storm clouds darkening a summer sky, and Imrahil's eyes blazed as if with lightning. "I will not tolerate such insolence in my presence. You are blinded by your anger, and you have placed far too much weight on whispers of no substance."

"Whispers?" Elphir echoed in disbelief. "And what are we to call my walking in on her and Amrothos in the stables? Hallucinations?"

Imrahil sighed, and the storm seemed to retreat; they were father and son once more. "I know how it must have hurt you to see the woman you cared about in an embrace with him," he said gently, and Elphir's jaw tightened. The horror of seeing his brother's hands upon Gúthwyn was all the more potent because he had been on the verge of giving her a chance to explain herself—and what was more, he might have forgiven her if she had been convincing enough.

"But do you truly believe," Imrahil went on, "that you misjudged Lady Gúthwyn's character so completely? Do you truly believe that she was a willing participant in Amrothos's game?"

"I saw the truth. I do not need you to tell me how to interpret it!"

"Then your vision is not what it once was."

The last thing Elphir desired was to rehash this old argument, to revisit yet again this eternal point of contention between them. Imrahil did not know that Elphir had given Gúthwyn every opportunity to tell her side of the story, only for his letters to be ignored; he did not know about the conversation Lothíriel had overheard between Éomer and Gúthwyn, in which Éomer had not seemed surprised in the least by Gúthwyn's admission that she was no longer a maiden.

 _How would you feel, Father, if I told you that one of your greatest allies saw fit to trick your son into marrying a woman of no virtue?_

But he held his tongue. Imrahil possessed a seemingly limitless store of excuses for Gúthwyn's behavior and no doubt would come up with some ridiculous tale about Lothíriel sabotaging their betrothal—as if his own daughter was less trustworthy than a whore.

Instead, he told his father, "I will take my leave now."

He was almost at the end of the gallery, his hand stretched out for the door, when he heard Imrahil's voice behind him. "I noticed Amrothos's letter to you was thicker than all the others."

Elphir froze, then spun around to face him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Out of everyone in this family, it appears he had the most to confess to you."

And although Elphir had wondered about the discrepancy between his and his siblings' letters, Imrahil's suggestion filled him with fury. "There truly are no depths to which you will not stoop to defend Éomer's whore of a sister. Never mind what I saw in the stables. Never mind that she was the _only_ woman I had ever been able to see at my side after Amarië, and she repaid my trust by breaking it in the worst possible way. I feel sick every time I think of her—she played me for an utter fool! Does that mean so little to you?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed open the door and vanished into the staircase.


	11. Naneth

**Chapter Eleven**

May was giving way to June, a slow transition marked by bright skies and warm winds that whispered through the grass. The snow upon the White Mountains surrendered its hold on the lower slopes, crawling back to its stronghold in the higher peaks; in Edoras, cloaks were cast off, shoulders uncurled and eyes squinting as their owners basked in the sun.

Since Lothíriel was still in Dol Amroth, Gúthwyn and Legolas ordered their days around Elfwine, attending to him whenever Éomer was in meetings. They walked him to his lessons, afterwards questioning him on what he had learned; and they spent hours at the archery range, Gúthwyn watching in growing amazement as Elfwine shot entire quiversful of arrows into the center of the targets.

Éomer was much obliged to them for their help. He strove to set aside time for Elfwine each day, whether it be a session at the training grounds or an excursion to the Snowbourn, yet even these miserly increments were not guaranteed. Although he would never admit it, Gúthwyn suspected that he had underestimated Lothíriel's recent contributions to his council, and the growing stacks of parchment on his desk made him feel her loss more keenly.

"I cannot believe how many merchants she has been writing to about the fair!" she overheard him complain to Cobryn one night, glowering at a veritable mountain of scrolls. "And these are just the ones from Minas Tirith…"

Gúthwyn had worries of her own. As June approached, so too did the hour in which she would have to inform Hammel and Haiweth of her betrothal. She was having trouble falling asleep, lying awake and envisioning all the horrible ways the conversation might play out. They would both feel as if she had betrayed them—Haiweth would be horrified, and Hammel's anger she could scarcely imagine.

Perhaps she ought to have confided in Legolas, but she did not want to add to his burdens. The long-awaited letter from King Thranduil had yet to arrive; Legolas's eyes filled with hope whenever a messenger appeared in the Golden Hall, only to dim as he saw that they were from Rohan or Gondor. After the third or fourth time this happened, Gúthwyn had seriously considered writing to King Thranduil and pleading with him on Legolas's behalf, yet in the end she had refrained. Not only was such a course of action likely to make things worse, but in any event her letter would not have reached Eryn Lasgalen in time.

In an effort to keep both Legolas and herself from dwelling too much on what was beyond their control, she continued their picnic lunches—perhaps more frequently than would have been prudent, considering the looks she was starting to receive from Balman and Hildeth. It was easy enough to ignore them, however, since these excursions outside the city were the only opportunity she had to spend any time alone with her future husband.

On one such afternoon, having finished their meal, they resumed her Sindarin lessons. By now, she was fairly confident about her ability to say "hello," "how are you," and "goodbye," but that was the bulk of her vocabulary, and not very well-pronounced at that. Legolas was unendingly patient, but she cringed whenever she heard herself butchering the melodious sounds of his language, and often it felt like her tongue was several sizes too big for the task. There was always a syllable she could not quite grasp, always a vowel or a consonant that danced maddeningly out of reach.

Today she was learning about trees, for which it seemed Elves had a particular fondness, as there were just shy of a hundred words to describe them. Apparently "tree" itself would not do—at the minimum, one was expected to specify the type of tree, although there was also its age and coloring to consider. Despite initial progress, the lesson ground to a halt when Gúthwyn admitted that she could not very well distinguish between her beeches and her oaks.

"But surely Éowyn must have pointed out the differences when you were in Emyn Arnen?" Legolas kept saying in amazement. "Or Faramir?"

"Éowyn was more concerned with her gardens," Gúthwyn explained sheepishly. "And I hardly went on walks through the woods with Faramir."

"I know you have spent little of your life in the forest," Legolas conceded, looking around at the tree-less plains, "yet imagine how surprised you would be if someone could not distinguish a _mearh_ from the rest of the horses in your brother's stable."

Gúthwyn's mouth quirked at that. "I would think them very blind."

"Fortunately, your affliction is easily remedied," Legolas said with a grin. "Try _doron_ —'oak.' There are many of those in Ithilien."

" _Doron_ ," Gúthwyn repeated, trying not to trip over that strange rolled _r_. "And which ones are those?"

Fighting back a smile, Legolas answered, "You climbed one at the colony."

Gúthwyn blushed as she recalled her scrambling efforts to reach the top of the tree. That Legolas had managed to limit himself to gentle teasing was a sure testament to his forbearance. "I am not sure I climbed it so much as heaved myself up by sheer force of will."

"It did look rather ungainly," Legolas acknowledged with only the barest hint of a smirk.

She tried to glare at him, but the effect was ruined when she started laughing. His valiant attempt to keep a straight face made it all even funnier, and soon she was doubled over, fighting back tears as he looked on in bewildered amusement.

"Shall I insult you in the future when I wish to make you laugh?"

"No," she managed, wiping her eyes. "Not unless it is with that expression."

"What expression?"

His quiet indignation set her off again, and when she recovered he could only shake his head and smile. "Shall we continue?" he asked. "We have many more trees to cover."

And indeed, they did. By the time Legolas was satisfied that she could recite (mostly correctly) all of the trees she was likely to find within ten miles of the colony, it felt as if someone had scooped everything out of her head and filled it with leaves and twigs. Hoping to avoid another round, she asked him which trees Elves preferred to use for their homes.

"With the right care, most trees are hospitable," he answered, "but some are hardier than others, such as oak and beech."

"I still cannot imagine how one would live in a tree," Gúthwyn confessed. Although she and the Fellowship had spent a night in a _flet_ during their stay in Lothlórien, she had been delirious with fever at the time and had paid little attention to her surroundings. "Do they not worry about falling?"

Legolas chuckled. "Elves do not lose their balance so easily as mortals. It would be unheard of for one of us to fall out of our home."

"Well, in any event I am very glad that you live on the ground," Gúthwyn said fervently. She was not sure she would have ever grown accustomed to having to climb a ladder just to get into her house; so high off the ground, she would have been constantly watching her step, lest she plunge over the edge to her death.

"I almost considered having my own _flet_ ," Legolas informed her, "but I was used to my father's halls, so I compromised."

Gúthwyn was tempted to ask him more about Eryn Lasgalen—now that she was to be its princess, surely she would be visiting sooner rather than later—but Legolas's features had slackened at the mention of his father, and she did not want to prod at a fresh wound.

Clearing her throat, she changed the subject. "We had a messenger from Dol Amroth this morning, while you were at the archery range."

Legolas straightened. "I saw the rider at the gate, and I thought I recognized his livery. What news was there?"

"Neither good nor bad. Amrothos has not yet awoken, and Lothíriel has extended her stay for a while longer. Yet she has promised to return in time for Elfwine's birthday celebration."

"And yours," Legolas pointed out, to which she gave a wry smile.

"Somehow I doubt she will be rushing home for my birthday. Besides, I told Éomer I would rather the feast be about Elfwine. He is to give me no more than a passing mention in his speech, and that much only if he insists."

"You have said before that you do not enjoy your birthdays," Legolas said, a hint of curiosity in his words.

Gúthwyn stiffened, but then she reasoned that she did not need to provide every detail. "I was taken from my family on the day I turned twelve. Ever since then, almost all of them have been horrible. Now I only hope that they pass quietly and without event."

"That does not—" Legolas had been reaching out as if to caress her cheek, but he caught himself in time and withdrew his hand. She felt oddly breathless at the thought of him touching her that way, but she reminded herself that he could not very well do so in front of Balman.

With an apologetic smile, Legolas continued. "That does not need to be the case now. We will create better memories, ones that will not pain you to dwell on."

He spoke so earnestly, she could not bring herself to inform him that the best-laid plans always seemed to go awry on June thirteenth. Instead, she diverted the conversation to something she had often wondered about, but never asked.

"In all the time I have known you," she began, "not once have you ever mentioned _your_ birthday."

"That is because Elves do not celebrate their birthdays," Legolas answered, surprising her. "We celebrate our begetting days."

"Your—your begetting days?" she squeaked. "When—when you were _conceived_?"

"Aye. Mine is in March, though I am not sure what the exact date would be by Gondorian reckoning."

"But—" Gúthwyn was still trying to come to terms with the strangeness of this custom. "How did your parents… I mean, how does anyone _know_ …?" She was blushing furiously now, and hiding her face behind her cup of wine did little to help.

Legolas did not appear to understand her query. "How does anyone know their begetting day?" he asked, puzzled.

"Well, yes! I-I mean, surely if you are… attempting… to… to conceive, there are multiple… attempts? H-How would you know which one was successful?" In that moment, Gúthwyn would not have been averse to the ground opening up and swallowing her whole.

Legolas was watching her with growing astonishment, and perhaps a flicker of amusement as well. "I have noticed that humans seem very reluctant to discuss this subject," he said when she finally sank into mortified silence. "Yet is it not one of our most natural instincts—for Elves and Men alike—to bring children into this world?"

"I-I suppose it is," she stammered.

"And is it not just as natural to take pleasure in this union?" Legolas continued, his bright blue eyes fixed upon her.

Gúthwyn's stomach threatened to expel everything she had consumed for lunch. Why did they have to discuss this now? She did not want to think about what she was supposed to experience in her marriage bed.

"Y-You have not answered my question," she managed. "How do Elves know the exact—occasion—on which their child comes into being?"

"It is the mother who knows first," Legolas said—"she senses the child's _fae_ within her. In the Common Tongue, perhaps you would say 'spirit'?"

"She senses the child right away?"

Legolas nodded, seeming surprised by her amazement. "It is not so with humans?"

"No, not at all." To think how long it took mortal women to realize they were expecting! At least if what she had heard from Éowyn and the washing circle women was true. Yet if her child was also to be Legolas's, perhaps he or she would have this _fae_ as well? She wondered what it would be like, knowing immediately that there was the smallest beginning of life inside of her…

 _And you would be spared that much sooner from your marriage duties._

It felt rather like a betrayal, having these thoughts with her husband-to-be only a few feet away, and she did her best to quell them. It was not her right to deny him pleasure if he wished; she supposed his mother would never have done such a thing to his father.

"Gúthwyn?"

"I-I am sorry," she said as she was drawn from her dark musings. "I was just…"

She trailed off, not knowing what to say that would not lead them back down the path she wished to avoid. After a moment's consideration, she tentatively raised a subject which had long been hovering at the edges of her thought.

"Legolas," she began, unsure of how he would respond, "you are under no obligation to answer this, but do you… do you remember much of your mother?"

A look of such sorrow passed across Legolas's face that she immediately regretted asking. Berating herself for her insensitivity, she hastened to apologize. "I am sorry—never mind, I should not have pried."

Legolas swiftly assured her that she had done nothing wrong. "If we are to share our lives together, then I would hide nothing from you, not even the parts which have caused me the most pain. For I do remember her, though I wonder if it would be easier if I did not."

Unable to reach out to him, Gúthwyn settled for murmuring, "I am so sorry."

"I was lucky," Legolas said, making an effort to smile. "I spent my earliest years in her light, and for that at least I am grateful. I understand now why she could not stay, and I do not begrudge her leaving."

Gúthwyn could not imagine ever coming to terms with a parent's voluntary departure; she counted herself as very fortunate that she had been too young to remember the deaths of her own mother and father, and she rarely thought of what her life might have been like otherwise.

"What was she like?" she asked quietly.

Legolas's voice turned soft, his gaze unfocused as he spun out the thread of a distant memory. "What I remember most is her kindness. My father once told me that she had no enemies, and all who knew her loved her. I believe him: every night, no matter how busy she and my father were, she would come to my room just to put me to bed. She had hair that was golden like mine, yet seemed to ripple as though it were water, and she would let me braid it, though mine were never as tidy as hers."

"She taught you how to do them?" Gúthwyn guessed, looking with renewed curiosity at the small braids that he almost always wore above each ear.

Legolas nodded. "When it was at last time for bed, she would stay with me for a while, asking me about my day and telling me of hers. Sometimes I still hear her in my dreams, calling me her 'little leaf.' And then she would sing, and I would fall asleep listening to her voice."

As she listened, Gúthwyn pictured Legolas, as young as Elfwine was now, safe and content in the arms of his mother—who was no more distinct in her mind than a beautiful, golden haze, just as Théodwyn had ever been. "What did she sing about?"

"I always begged for tales of battles and great warriors," Legolas said with a grin, "but she preferred to sing about Nimrodel the Fair, about stars shining down on a clear winter's night or rivers flowing through a meadow in the spring. And above all she sang of happier days, when the Shadow had not yet come to the Greenwood." He paused, collecting his thoughts, and then said, "My apologies, I fear I have given you far more information than you asked for."

"You can tell me whatever you like about your mother," Gúthwyn answered. "Truly, I will listen."

Legolas considered for a moment, rewarding her at length with a soft smile. "Thank you, Gúthwyn. I… I do not speak of her often, for I know it hurts my father."

He did not seem to begrudge Thranduil his reticence, but Gúthwyn thought of how difficult it must have been for him as a child in the wake of his mother's departure, unable to talk about her with the one person who would have known her best. Yet she held her tongue, reluctant to criticize the Elvenking for this—as unfair as his withdrawal had been to Legolas, she knew all too well the pain of losing a loved one, and she could not have said she would have done any differently.

Since Legolas had fallen silent again, she asked gently, "How did they meet?"

"Her family was among those who followed my grandfather from Lindon to the forest," Legolas explained. "My grandfather desired to strengthen his newfound realm, and part of this was securing the line of succession—so my father, his heir, needed a wife."

"It was not a love match?" Gúthwyn asked, astonished. While she was hard-put to imagine Thranduil courting someone with tender words and heartfelt gestures, from the way Legolas spoke of his parents she had assumed that this was a side of the Elvenking that she had never witnessed.

"Not at first. My grandfather apparently gave him a list of acceptable women, and he was to choose from among them."

Gúthwyn gasped. "But I thought marriage between Elves was not arranged?"

"Yes and no." Legolas smiled at her indignation. "Such a union cannot be forced—if my father had truly objected to all of the women, my grandfather would have searched for more candidates. But if the families encourage a match and both parties are willing, it does not matter what their reasons are, be they love or political gain. In my father's case, I believe my grandfather would have preferred him to take a Silvan bride, but instead he paid court to my mother."

 _I bet he wanted nothing to do with a Silvan bride,_ Gúthwyn thought darkly, recalling some of Thranduil's remarks about this subset of his people. "But why did she agree to marry him?"

Too late, she realized she might have found a more delicate way of putting this—yet Legolas had taken the question seriously, and he answered, "She told me that she had always held him in high esteem, and she knew he would be a fair husband and a wise ruler."

"But they did fall in love eventually…?"

"Aye, they did." But either Legolas did not know how this change had occurred, or he did not wish to speak of it, for all he said was, "My father was devastated when she left. To this day, I am the only one allowed to speak of her in his hearing—and not because he would wish me to do so, but because he would not deny me that right as her son."

"I am sorry," she whispered. "It must have been terrible for you—for both of you. You were very young, were you not?"

Legolas nodded, and his eyes were filled with sorrow. "I was old enough to know that something was wrong," he said, "and young enough to think I could fix it."

Her heart broke for him, for the child he had been—so alike in her mind to Elfwine, who still hoped for his parents' reconciliation. Were it not for the fear of what might happen if word got back to Hammel and Haiweth, she would have thrown caution to the wind and reached out to him, not caring who saw them from the city walls.

Instead, all she could do was ask, "Then why did she leave?"

"She could not endure the growing power in the East," Legolas said quietly. "When the Shadow came to the forest, she…" His sigh carried across a gentle breeze.

As curious as Gúthwyn was about Legolas's mother, causing him even more pain was not a toll she was willing to pay for answers. "You do not need to go on," she said. "You do not have to tell me everything, if you do not wish to."

Frustrated by her inability to comfort him in a more substantial way, she yanked the picnic basket between them, and behind its cover she grasped his hand. Yet even as their fingers intertwined and their palms connected, she saw him shake his head.

"In a few months' time, we will take each other as husband and wife," he said, and the promise in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. "And from that moment on, everything I have is yours, and I will share in everything with you, whether it be bad or good."

Gúthwyn listened to him with growing unease. If Legolas wanted to delve into his past and lay everything out before her, what would he say when she could not return the favor? She was starting to feel like a small creature scurrying across bare rock as a hawk circled overhead, with no place to escape from its prying eyes.

"Yet beyond my vows to you," Legolas went on as she tried not to flinch from his gaze, "it is something you ought to know, for she was not the only one to leave. I wish for you to understand the despair of those days, for it is an important part of my people's history, and its effects linger even now that the Enemy is utterly defeated.

"You have heard about the Last Alliance at the end of the Second Age." Gúthwyn nodded. "Perhaps I have mentioned to you that many Elves of the Greenwood perished during that war?" After a moment, she nodded again—she thought she could recall him saying something about it in passing, many years ago, though they had not lingered on the subject.

Legolas took a deep breath before he continued. "In fact it was a massacre. My grandfather, Oropher, was the king at the time. He agreed to join Gil-galad and Elendil in their assault against the Enemy, but he was too proud to abandon his hatred of the Noldor."

"And Gil-galad was…" Gúthwyn trained off, embarrassed by her lack of knowledge.

"He was the High King of the Noldor," Legolas explained—as patiently as ever, without remonstrance. "His father was Fingon, who rescued Fëanor's son Maedhros from his imprisonment upon the peaks of Thangorodrim."

Gúthwyn vividly remembered the story—Fingon had had to cut off Maedhros's arm, a detail which had both disgusted and thrilled Elfwine. "Your grandfather did not like Gil-galad because of everything his kin had done to claim the Silmarils?" she guessed, recalling the violence that had spun its web through Legolas's story.

Legolas nodded. "My grandfather refused to wait for his command and rushed into battle with Sauron's forces. Yet unlike the Noldor, whose skill lay in the forging of weapons and armor, his army was ill-equipped, and they were overwhelmed by the Enemy. My grandfather and his guard were driven into the marshes and slaughtered."

Gúthwyn barely managed to contain her gasp of horror—Sam had told her once about the treacherous path he and Frodo had taken through the Dead Marshes, where rotting corpses were visible beneath the waters. She had heard rumors about that place before, about mysterious lights that beckoned unsuspecting travelers to their doom, but she had not realized that it was the forsaken graveyard of Legolas's people.

"My father tried to come to their aid," Legolas continued, "but at that moment his own company was betrayed by a group of Woodmen who had secretly sworn allegiance to the Enemy. By the time the Woodmen were dealt with, so many had died that my father was forced to retreat to Gil-galad's lines." He paused, then added, "Raniean's father and all three of his brothers were among those slain."

Gúthwyn drew in an astonished breath. "Raniean's father died?"

"Aye, he fell protecting my father—they had grown up together as friends, and he was my father's second-in-command. Raniean's brothers were simply unlucky, for they had been stationed next to the Woodmen and were among the first to die. Raniean had not been deemed old enough to go with them into battle."

"So that is why Raniean hates Men," Gúthwyn said with dawning comprehension. "By the Valar, I should have guessed—"

For she could understand all too well what it was like to be consumed by rage and grief, to lash out at someone whose only crime was to resemble the person who had actually hurt her. How could she blame Raniean for hating her entire race, when she herself had once loathed his?

Yet Legolas's voice carried firm as he replied, "It is only an explanation, not an excuse. For it was but one clan of the Woodmen who betrayed my father, and when the others realized what was happening they fought against their own kindred to defend him. Because of their faithfulness, none of those who had allied with the Enemy survived long enough to rejoice in the destruction they had wrought. Raniean chooses to overlook this and has nursed his hatred beyond all reason."

"I suppose you are right," Gúthwyn said after a moment. "It is only that I of all people…"

"Should serve as an example to him of how not to let bitterness cloud all reason." Squeezing her hand, Legolas said, "I have watched you change for over a decade now, and it still astonishes me how different you are from when we first met. I wish Raniean had been more like you."

Gúthwyn thought he was giving her far too much credit, yet still her heart swelled at his words. He was proud of her—he who was perhaps the most qualified of anyone to judge her recovery, for it could be measured by a single glance between them. "You are too kind," she murmured, blushing.

Another squeeze of her hand. "And you are too modest."

She did not know what to say to that; it always felt strange, receiving compliments on anything other than her ability with a sword, especially when they came from him. Hoping to steer the conversation back to safer ground, she said, "Yet it must have been painful for Raniean, when he heard the news."

The smile faded from Legolas's face. "In Rivendell and Gondor they made songs of the Last Alliance, but there was little rejoicing in the Greenwood, and to many the cost of victory was too dear. Less than a third of the army that set out ever returned from the Land of Shadow, and Raniean's suffering was shared by all who had remained behind. My mother also lost her father and brothers in that war—no family was left untouched."

Gúthwyn's eyes were wide as she listened. She had witnessed some of what Legolas was describing in the aftermath of Helm's Deep, but even then their losses had not been so great as what Legolas was describing. If two-thirds of Théoden's men had perished at the Pelennor Fields, her brother among them… if the armies of the West had fallen…

No wonder Thranduil could not bear death. No wonder he hated her for bringing it back into his halls.

"Is that why your mother left?" she asked hesitatingly. "Because her family was gone?"

Legolas shook his head. "She did not go then, though many did—my father once told me that less than a year after Sauron fell, half of the Elves who had once dwelt in the Greenwood were gone, either dead or unwilling to reside in Middle-earth any longer. He said I would never know how full the palace had once been."

"Oh, Legolas, that is horrible. I am so sorry."

"Raniean's mother left, too," he told her, looking down at their entwined hands. "She vanished in the middle of the night, and no one saw her again. Raniean never found out if she made it to the Sea, or if that was even her intent."

"If that was even her—" Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat when she realized what Legolas meant. Although she would never have expected it as little as half an hour ago, she deeply pitied Raniean. The parallels between them were clearer than ever—her own father had been slain by Orcs, and her mother had then wasted away from grief. Yet unlike Raniean, she did not remember either of them, nor the life she and her siblings had lost.

"My father took Raniean in after his mother disappeared," Legolas continued after a moment. "I was born not long after, and he was always like a brother to me. For this I tried to overlook his hatred of Men, and I wish it had ended differently between us. Yet it is not your fault," he added, seeing her about to respond.

And she knew that he was right—if she could overcome her fears enough to marry the very image of her tormenter, Raniean could find it in his heart to endure the company of mortals who had no connection to those who had betrayed his family. Yet it still pained her to be the cause of his and Legolas's separation, especially since she knew how close they had once been.

With nothing else to say, she asked, "So why did your mother leave, if not after the Last Alliance?"

Legolas took a deep breath, drawing himself up as if he were a warrior prepared to spend the last of his strength at the end of a long battle. "We had peace for a time, after the Enemy was vanquished," he said. "But eventually the darkness came back to the forest, though we did not perceive its true nature until it was too late. All we knew was that the fortress upon Amon Lanc was now occupied by something malevolent, and the Woodmen were locking their doors at night. Patrols began finding enormous spider webs, such as had not been seen since the height of Sauron's dominion, and there were reports of travelers being waylaid by Orcs, who were emerging again from their old caves.

"I do not know if my mother guessed that the Enemy had returned, or if the thought of another dark power was too much for her to bear. My father does not speak of it, and I was too young to understand what was happening. All I remember…"

He bowed his head, and for a long time he was quiet. His fair face was shrouded in grief, and though there was less than a foot between them, he seemed to have no awareness of his surroundings. It was as if the only thing that still tethered him to the sunny plains of Rohan was her hand clasped firmly in his; she was afraid that if she let go, he would be lost.

"Legolas," she said, calling him back. "You do not have go on, if the memory is too painful. Please, not for my sake."

He returned to her by degrees: slowly at first, then more swiftly when he saw her concern. "Nay, I will finish," he answered heavily. "It will not take long."

After another pause, in which she was relieved to see his eyes focusing again, he said, "I remember that she became more and more withdrawn, until I would only ever see her in her chambers—she would not go out into the forest, and her throne in the great hall was always empty, even during feasts. At night I would hear her and my father's voices through the walls, and I knew they were arguing, though I could not discern individual words."

Gúthwyn imagined a young Legolas lying in bed, wide-eyed as he strained to listen to his parents. "That must have been difficult for you."

"I used to think it was my fault," Legolas confessed, "and if only I could be a better son they would both be happy again. I spent hours striving to master my lessons so that my tutor would have favorable reports for them. I practiced with the bow they had given me until my fingers bled. And I never spoke a word out of turn or disobeyed a command.

"One night, my mother came to my room again, and she sat with me like she used to, and while she braided my hair she sang of the Sea, and the beckoning cries of the gulls." Here Legolas's voice caught, but at length he mastered himself. "When she was done, she told me that she was not feeling well, and she was sailing west to a beautiful green country where they would be able to heal her. She said that someday she hoped my father and I would join her in this place across the Sea, though my father might need more convincing. Last of all, she told me that I would always be her little leaf, and she would never stop loving me, no matter how long it was until we were all together again.

"I still did not understand. I thought she was only going away for a while, and then my father and I would bring her back home. I begged to go with her, so I too could see the green country, and she told me that it was not my time yet, and my father would need me with him. Then she sang to me once more, and I feel asleep in her arms, and when I woke up she was gone."

Gúthwyn gasped. "You never saw her again?"

He shook his head.

"Oh, Legolas, I cannot even imagine—that must have been so devastating." She was holding his hand so tightly, anyone less strong than he would have had bruises—but there was little else she could do in full view of the sentinels upon the city walls. She cursed their presence, and for a moment she was sorely tempted to fling discretion aside and embrace him, or even just kiss his hand to show that she was there for him. It took a concerted effort to remind herself of Hammel and Haiweth—how would they feel if they learned of her engagement to Legolas from someone else?

With a sigh, Legolas said, "It was worse for my father. At least I could cling to the hope that she might return, but he knew she would not. And he has never been the same since. Even now, two thousand years later, I rarely see him smile. He is so altered from my earliest memories of him that I sometimes wonder if I imagined hearing his laughter so often."

"No wonder he endeavored to split us apart," Gúthwyn murmured, swallowing. "He only wanted to spare you the pain he has endured for so long."

What she did not add, because she did not want Legolas to feel even worse, was that if Legolas followed through with his plan to sail west after Aragorn's passing, Thranduil's suffering would be renewed—and this time it would be tenfold, for Legolas was his only child.

"I understand his reasons now," Legolas replied, exhaling, "but that does not excuse the way he treated you. If he had but confided in me instead of attacking you, none of this would have happened."

Gúthwyn did not contradict him. She knew Thranduil had hurt him—and continued to hurt him—by withholding his blessing of their marriage. But she privately resolved to forgive the Elvenking for his interference, or at least set aside her past grievances with him.

"I should warn you," Legolas went on, "although you have no doubt reached the same conclusion—it would be best not to mention my mother around my father, or indeed to any Elves within the colony or Eryn Lasgalen."

"Of course," she hastily agreed.

"Yet you need not censor yourself in my presence."

Though he was managing a smile, she felt uneasy. "I would not want to cause you further pain by reminding you of her loss."

"I am not used to speaking of her," Legolas conceded, "but I have no wish to hide anything from you."

Gúthwyn could not help but avert her eyes—it did not seem fair that he was being so open with her, whereas she had yet to return the favor. Like a coward, she did not mention this; instead, she lifted her gaze and asked, "I suppose I should also never inform Raniean that you told me about his family."

"I do not think we will be seeing much of Raniean in the future, but yes, I would advise against that."

For a while, there was quiet; he did not speak, and she was absorbing all that she had heard. They had talked for so long that the sun was now well on its journey towards the horizon. Normally they would have been back in the city at this time, and no doubt Balman had noticed the deviation from their routine.

It was Legolas who broke the silence. "Gúthwyn," he began, and the way he said her name made her instantly wary, "given the way this conversation has turned, I was wondering if I might ask you something."

"And what is that?" she managed, her throat dry. She thought she knew already—and it had taken him far longer than she had expected to raise the subject. Yet it could not be put off forever.

He fixed her with those piercing blue eyes that had haunted her dreams and nightmares alike. "What did Haldor do to you?"


	12. Glimpses and Guesses

**Chapter Twelve**

The trap was sprung; its iron bars close around her, making it impossible to move, impossible to breathe. Legolas wanted honesty, and she wanted to curl up in an unnoticed corner until the questions and memories went away.

Because now that Legolas had asked— _What did Haldor do to you?_ —the answers were emerging from the darkest places of her mind. Every night in his tent. Knives cold and sharp against her skin. Using Borogor against her. Taking Hammel away and making her bargain her soul for information. And other things that she was so ashamed of, even now, when he had been dead for over a decade…

"Gúthwyn?"

"I…" Her voice was weak and rasping; she needed to clear her throat, but she was trying not to be sick.

"I do not ask because I would demand a trade, one unpleasant story for another." Now it was Legolas who was holding her hand, keeping her above water. "I ask because I know that you are still affected by him—even his name makes you flinch. And though you have come to see me as something other than a constant reminder of him, I worry that he may yet sow discord in our marriage. Will you not tell me how he hurt you? If it is beyond my power to mend those wounds, then at the least I would avoid reopening them."

To her horror, his gentle supplications brought tears to her eyes. He had only her best interests in mind, and she would rather have faced a dragon than confide in him.

"Can I have a minute?" she asked unsteadily.

Legolas nodded, and she was embarrassed to feel relief when he let go of her hand. Unable to look at him, she stood and walked away from the blanket—not caring which direction she went in, nor what Balman might think as he watched them from his tower. All that mattered was putting enough distance between herself and Legolas so that she could breathe again.

She found a shallow dip on a nearby hill where she could sit without being seen by anyone, Legolas and Balman alike. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she took several gulps of air, wondering why she could never seem to completely banish Haldor from her life.

 _But you knew you would have to talk about him at some point,_ she reminded herself. Legolas had been astonishingly patient with her—in all the time since their first meeting, he had not once pressed her for more information than she was willing to give, when in fact he would have had every right to demand answers. How would she have felt in his place, if she had seen someone who looked so alike to her, yet was capable of committing such evil? Would she not have been desperate to learn about this other version of herself?

She had to tell him something. But _everything_? The part where Haldor had kept her in his tent for three days, naked, with neither food nor water, until she had begged for release? The part where he had turned her on her stomach and violated her in a way she had not even known was possible, and then forced her to pleasure him with her mouth? Or—the most shameful of all—the part where she had gone to him willingly after Borogor's death?

Éomer was the only person she had ever told about these darkest, most humiliating experiences; she had never asked, and she did not want to know, if he had shared the details with Éowyn. The thought of having to relive it all again was so distressing that she seriously considered bolting into the plains before anyone could find her and make her speak.

But she could not run. She had made promises to Legolas: to spend the rest of her life with him, to become the princess of his people. Faced with the first of many challenges that awaited her, was she to fall apart like this, cowering in fear of another who could not hurt her anymore?

When at last she returned to Legolas, he greeted her with concern rather than impatience, though it had been much longer than the minute she had asked for. "Are you feeling well?" he inquired when she sat down—not next to him, as she had before, but facing him, keeping her hands folded together.

"I am a little better, thank you." Pausing to gather her nerves, she said to her lap, "He… Haldor did a lot of terrible things to me, a-and I am not ready to tell you all of it. I-I am sorry, but I cannot. Éomer is the only one to whom I have told the whole story, and I-I have tried to forget it ever since…"

She was trembling now, and she almost gasped when he reached out and gently lifted her chin. Only when she at last met his eyes did he lower his hand and say, "Then start with what you can."

Shakily, she nodded.

"H-He was already there when I came to Mordor," she began, staring over Legolas's shoulder at the rolling green hills of her home. "He commanded the human companies of Sauron's army. No one knew how long he had been there, or how he had gotten there in the first place."

A flicker of disappointment passed through Legolas's features, vanishing swiftly.

"I thought… I thought he was so handsome," she whispered, swallowing. "I had never seen an Elf before, I had no idea that someone could look so… so perfect as him. And he was kind to me at first, he said I was so brave for having survived Isengard, a-and for taking care of Hammel and Haiweth. Bor—someone tried to warn me about him, but I thought I knew him better."

Legolas was listening without interruption, his brows drawn together in concentration. She found it easier to continue looking past him than to try to meet his eyes. "But they were right. He did change. He… you saw what he did to my back." When she had awoken in the Houses of Healing after the War, she had been mortified to discover that he and Aragorn had seen her scars while tending to her wounds, but now she was glad they had—it was one less thing she had to explain.

And one less unpleasant surprise for him on their wedding night.

"It looked like he used a knife," Legolas said, tactfully not mentioning the shape of the scars.

Gúthwyn nodded. "He started doing it because I could not focus on archery training with him standing there and yelling at me whenever I missed the mark. Afterwards, he just did it whenever the mood struck."

Legolas's gaze was filled with horror and sorrow; still she could not endure it.

"I was powerless against him," she said hoarsely. "He threatened to kill Hammel and Haiweth if I ever resisted. And I saw him—I saw him kill others who disobeyed him. I knew he would do it. One time—"

Her voice broke, and her vision blurred with tears. She had resigned herself to telling Legolas about this incident, since it would at least explain something he already knew, but that did not make it any less painful or humiliating. Part of her wondered if it would change Legolas's opinion of her, if he would be disgusted by what she had lowered herself to in Haldor's tent. And she was afraid to find out.

But she forced herself to choke out the words. "I could barely keep down the food they gave us in Mordor. I did not know it at the time, but it was… it was Orc-meat." She felt nauseous just thinking of it, and she saw the same revulsion reflected in Legolas's features. "He… He found out that I was not eating, and he decided to 'cure' me. Which meant tying me to—" Just in time, she stopped herself from saying _his bed_. "Tying me up, and telling me he would not let me go until I had finished an entire slab of that awful meat. But because my hands were bound, I had to… I had to use my mouth…"

She could not look at Legolas as she began to cry. She had spent so long trying not to think about that day, she had managed to forget just how awful it was; and now more and more details were resurfacing, from the meat's foul texture to the triumphant gleam in Haldor's eyes as she at last bent over like an animal.

She sobbed even harder when Legolas touched her cheek, catching her tears in his palm. "It grieves me to hear of your suffering, _rochir nín_ , and know that there is nothing I can do to spare you this pain."

Gúthwyn reached up and clasped his hand, not wanting him to let go even as she hoped he would look away. "Th-That is not the w-w-worst of it. I-I got sick a-and he told me h-he would _kill_ Hammel and H-Haiweth if I did not… if I did not eat that, too… I-I _had_ to, he was telling me to pick which one of them I w-w-wanted to die…"

She was all but crushing his hand by now—it was the only thing preventing her from sinking into the ground. Yet instead of pulling back, he leaned in, placing his other hand on her shoulder. "You owe me no explanation," he swore. "He took advantage of your love for Hammel and Haiweth and used it to torment you."

Struggling to regain control of herself, Gúthwyn said, "Th-That is why I cannot h-have meat… I-It makes me so sick… a-and I feel s-so ashamed…"

"Ashamed?" Legolas echoed in astonishment. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. How many others could have withstood such an ordeal? How many others would have made such sacrifices for children not of their own blood?"

Just when she thought her weeping had begun to slow, the tears fell even faster. How could Legolas say such kind things about her? How could he still want to marry her, knowing how she had debased herself?

"Y-You make it sound like I-I should be _proud_ of what I have done," she managed.

"Proud of surviving what was done to you," Legolas countered immediately. "Proud of having the courage to tell someone about it, as afraid as you were of how they might react."

She looked at him then, and she saw in his eyes everything he had told her: sorrow at her misfortunes, an understanding of what it had cost her to recall them… and still, somehow, a regard for her that had not diminished in the wake of her confessions.

It was fortunate that Legolas spoke then, for otherwise she would have lost what little remained of her composure. "Are Hammel and Haiweth aware of this?" he asked, sounding like he had already guessed the answer.

"No, and I never want them to find out." Gúthwyn lowered her hand, still entwined with Legolas's, and tried to wipe at her tears with the other. "I do not want them to think I resent them for what… for what I had to do to keep them alive. Because I would never begrudge them for that. I would do it all over again if I had to. Even for Hammel," she added defensively.

Legolas saw the conviction in her eyes, in the set of her jaw. "I should have known better after Frodo and Sam," he said, "yet increasingly it seems that if one goes looking for bravery, they ought to search not the ranks of the boldest warriors, but rather those who at first glance would be deemed an unlikely source."

"You really are too kind," was all she could say before she was overwhelmed once more by tears.

* * *

When they returned to the city, they were greeted at the gate by Balman, who then coughed and asked Gúthwyn if he could have a word with her.

She looked at him in puzzlement, until slowly it dawned on her—she had been so distraught over Haldor, and Legolas so intent on comforting her, that they had ceased to give any thought to who might be watching.

Her face flooding with color, she nodded and glanced at Legolas. "Go ahead," she told him. "I will be there in a few minutes."

"Are you sure?" Legolas had also guessed Balman's intentions, his eyes darting between her and the old watchman. Yet when she assured him that she was fine, he bade them farewell and continued up the road without her.

She turned back to Balman, who had a rather uneasy look about him. "Perhaps we should go up the tower, my lady. Less likely to be overheard that way."

Since there were rather a lot of people going about their daily business on the street, Guthyn was quick to agree, and she followed him up the wooden stairs until they reached the top. Seeing the perfect view of the hill where she and Legolas had picnicked made her feel quite foolish.

"My lady." She looked over at Balman, who was shifting on his feet and tugging anxiously at his grey beard. "I know Prince Legolas is a handsome Elf-lord, and he treats you kindly, but I worry that he is taking too many liberties with you."

There was, of course, no hint of a suggestion that _she_ might be allowing said liberties to be taken.

"I am not the only guard manning the walls," he went on, looking at her closely, "and not all of the lads can be discreet."

"I suppose many of them saw—?"

Too late, she realized she should have maintained the charade, denying everything outright and then coincidentally becoming more reserved on future outings with Legolas—or, better yet, reducing their frequency. Instead, she had effectively admitted her guilt to Balman, who was now faced with the altogether more alarming dilemma of his king's sister consorting with a guest. An Elven guest, no less.

He absorbed the shock with remarkable alacrity. "My son and I were alone for most of our shift, and he knows better than to go around repeating the business of his betters. But I cannot account for every pair of eyes in this city." He sighed. "My lady, I have promised King Éomer to keep watch over you whenever you venture outside the walls. I would be remiss in my duties if I were to withhold this information from him."

Gúthwyn had to fight the urge to laugh—poor Balman was only looking after her, and moreover he was doing her the favor of speaking to her before Éomer. Therefore, with proper solemnity, she assured him, "I would not want you to hide anything from my brother. Can I otherwise trust in your discretion?"

Balman was looking at her more queerly than ever. "Of course, my lady. Does this mean that you and Prince Legolas…?"

She smiled at him. "I promise to be on my best behavior from now on."

He thanked her with relief, but when they parted ways, she felt his keen eyes following her and knew that one more person in Edoras had found out her secret.

* * *

 **Response to RP911:** You were right on the nose about Legolas's trust in Gúthwyn... I'm guessing you weren't surprised by Gúthwyn's response!

I intentionally left the fate of Raniean's mother ambiguous, but suffice it to say she no longer walks on Middle-earth.


	13. Humility

**Chapter Thirteen**

The next morning, Gúthwyn awoke feeling restless. She had not slept well; long had she tossed and turned, brooding over her and Legolas's conversation about Haldor, wondering if she had confessed too much or too little. When at last she had drifted off, it was into an uneasy dream in which golden-haired figures flitted in and out of sight, always vanishing before she could determine if they were friend or foe.

Waking was little better. It had been many years since she had revisited some of those memories of Haldor, and it felt as if walls were closing in on her again, with him just outside—how long until he forced his way in? How much strength did she have left to resist?

She sat up and swung her legs to the floor. Leaving her bed helped, but it was not enough; after a moment, she began pacing, crossing back and forth over pale rectangles of morning light. It had to be very early—she could not hear any movement elsewhere within the Golden Hall. Yet the thought of trying to fall back asleep held little appeal to her.

Clenching and unclenching her fists, she looked around the room, seeking a distraction…

…And then her eyes fell upon the trunk where Framwine had lain, unused, since her return to Edoras. At once, as if it had never left, she was seized by the desire to feel the sword's weight in her hands, to wield it against an opponent and forget everything else but the clashing of steel.

That would keep Haldor at bay.

She dressed quickly, unearthing an old pair of leggings and a worn tunic from the bottom of her drawers. It took longer to find her wrist braces, but at length she extracted them from her wardrobe and then set about tying back her hair.

She entered the throne room, Framwine in hand, at the same time as Legolas, who emerged from the opposite corridor with his bow and quiver slung across his back. They both stopped short when they saw each other.

"You are up early," Legolas remarked after a moment, crossing the hall to speak with her. "And you have returned to the sword?"

"I…" Gúthwyn glanced around; unfortunately, a servant was nearby, tending to the hearth. Lowering her voice, she said, "I did not sleep well last night. And it was time."

"You did not sleep well?" Legolas echoed, his brow knitting in concern. He, too, looked over at the servant. "Because of what we discussed yesterday?"

She hesitated too long, and his frown deepened. "I am sorry. It was never my intent to hurt you. I wish I had been able to offer more comfort."

He spoke so quietly that she knew there was no chance of them being overheard, yet all the same—especially after her conversation with Balman—she thought it best to exercise caution. "It is quite all right," she answered, raising her voice again so as to dispel any semblance of intimacy. "I am in need of practice. I will have to see how long I last at the training grounds this morning."

Legolas understood at once, and he adjusted his tone accordingly. "Would you like a sparring partner?"

They were almost betrothed; he would be sharing her bed in a few months. And yet, something inside of her tensed up at his suggestion, innocuous though it was. She had never fought with him before—he had always limited himself to practicing with his friends, ever on the periphery of her vision but no closer. What would happen if this boundary were breached? If he raised a weapon against her, even a blunted one, would the line between him and Haldor blur until she could no longer distinguish them?

Legolas saw her expression and swiftly retracted his offer. "I am sure you will not be lacking for volunteers."

"It is not—" Gúthwyn cut herself off with a frustrated look at the servant. If only they could speak freely! In the end, she settled for asking him, "Will you walk there with me?"

"Aye." If Legolas was disappointed, he did not show it. "Shall we?"

At this hour, the sun had not yet appeared over the mountains, and in its absence a pale light diffused over the roofs of still-slumbering homes. The main road was nearly empty, and Gúthwyn waited only until they were well enough away from the Meduseld guards to speak.

"It is not that I would not appreciate your company," she said in a rush, hoping she had not offended him. "But we have not—we have never sparred together before. And I know it is foolish, but sometimes I am afraid I might… see someone else. If we fight."

"Even now?" he asked quietly. "Or because of yesterday?"

Gúthwyn gave a helpless shrug. "I know you would never hurt me. But I do not know if I would be able to remember that if I had to defend myself against you. It is a test I am not ready to face."

Legolas considered her words for a moment, and she watched him anxiously. "I understand," he said at length, causing her to release the breath she had been holding. "I do not want to distress you further. I should have been more thoughtful."

"But you are thoughtful," Gúthwyn objected. "It is not your fault."

He gave her a sad smile, and not knowing what else to do she moved closer and tucked her arm into his, hoping the gesture would assure him where her words had failed. She saw him glance at their surroundings before he reached over and briefly covered her hand with his. Though it did not last long, it lifted her spirits, and she was able to enjoy the rest of their walk. Eventually, however, they went their separate ways: he wished her good luck and continued to the archery range, and she entered the training grounds alone.

At this hour, she had expected to be the only person there, but someone—or rather, two someones—had beaten her.

"I suppose I should not be surprised," she remarked as Lebryn and Onyveth whirled around to see who the intruder was. It looked as though they had been practicing for quite some time; Onyveth's braids were even messier than usual, and there was a fine sheen of sweat on her small brow. Clutching her wooden sword, she stared defiantly at Gúthwyn, although the effect was ruined when she darted an anxious glance at her father.

Lebryn scowled, though Gúthwyn knew better than to take it personally—she thought she had seen a faint trace of embarrassment beneath his annoyance. "Well, _I_ am surprised to see _you_ here," he called out, raising his eyebrows at Framwine. "Did you take a wrong turn on your way to melt that thing down?"

Gúthwyn grinned—if that was the worst she heard today, she would count herself lucky. "Welcome me back properly, and for once you will have an easy victory. You might not even have to cheat."

Lebryn's scowl deepened, as did her smile. He had ruffled quite a few feathers over the years by refusing to abandon his impressive repertoire of dirty tricks. Every once in a while, a Rider would find himself flat on his back with a hitherto unnoticed knife at his throat, and cries of foul play were answered not with an apology, but a rhetorical question about whether they also expected their opponents on the battlefield to play fairly.

Fortunately for Gúthwyn, she knew most of his tricks from their days in Isengard, and she also knew that he narrowed his eyes ever so slightly before he tried something dishonorable, an observation which had saved her just in time on more than one occasion. Looking at Onyveth, whose frown was a near perfect copy of her father's, she had a feeling that she would need to warn Elfwine before the two of them had a chance to spar together.

"How are your lessons coming, Onyveth?" she asked, forestalling Lebryn's inevitable retort.

Onyveth hesitated, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, and finally settled on a taciturn "Good."

"You will have to find out when everyone else does," Lebryn said, putting his arm around Onyveth's shoulders. Gúthwyn was both touched and amused by the pride in his voice and the outward thrust of his chest.

"Well," she answered with a grin, "I shall practice on the opposite end, and I promise not to look in your direction."

"Swear on your life," Onyveth demanded.

Gúthwyn suppressed the laughter bubbling up in her throat. "I swear on my life," she assured Onyveth. "In fact, I will start right now."

With a wink at Lebryn, who hastily turned a chuckle into a cough, she turned and walked as far away from them as she could go, until at last she reached the heap of old and worn equipment that everyone was free to use. There were a couple of human-shaped targets in the pile; selecting one, she set it up and unsheathed her sword for the first time in over two years.

The sound was like music to her ears, as was the familiar _whoosh_ , _whoosh_ of her first few experimental strokes through the air. If Lebryn and Onyveth thought she would break her promise to them, they need not have worried—she instantly forgot their presence as the world around her faded, leaving only herself, the target, and the shining point of her blade.

 _Well, here goes nothing,_ she thought.

Her first strike to the target's neck sent an unpleasant jolt through her arm. Gritting her teeth, she aimed next at the opposite shoulder, and this time her other arm groaned in protest.

 _And I am not even fighting a real opponent,_ she thought in dismay.

 _Then I will just have to try harder,_ a long-buried part of her vowed.

Over the next half-hour, she threw every attack she could think of at the target, reacquainting herself with maneuvers that were still etched into her muscles' memory. It was not long before she was sweating in earnest, and she had to pause more often than she would have liked to take a drink of water.

A one point, she glanced up and saw that Lebryn and Onyveth were gone, and the sun had climbed higher in the sky. Men would soon begin arriving at the training grounds, and she did not want them to catch her lazing about. So she returned to the target, and soon she was so absorbed in her work that she did not notice she was being watched until a voice unexpectedly boomed out behind her.

"Well, well, if it is not Lady Gúthwyn returned to grace us with her presence!"

She spun around and leveled Framwine at the speaker before she realized who it was. "Elfhelm! You startled me."

"And you startled me," he returned, giving her a once-over. Behind him, she saw a group of young soldiers loitering at a distance, doing a poor job of concealing their interest. "For a moment I thought I was seeing a ghost!"

She made a face. "Very clever."

"So, what brought you back?" he asked, looking at her closely.

"It has been too long," was all she said.

Elfhelm did not seem quite convinced, but at length he nodded. "Well, you are right about that. Any longer and your arms would have disappeared. Not to mention how sloppy your form has gotten. And is that rust on your blade?"

"It is not!" she cried indignantly, even as she checked.

He let out a bark of laughter. "Come, then, let us see what remains of your old skill."

"Very little, I would imagine," she replied, following him to a stretch of dirt that had been cleared for sparring. The soldiers were now openly staring; among them she caught a glimpse of Heahtor, Elfhelm's nephew, now a staggering sixteen years old.

Elfhelm raised his sword. "More than you might think. But not enough, I will wager, to spare you tomorrow's aches and pains." He cocked his head. "Shall I go easy on you?"

Gúthwyn was not fooled—beneath the teasing lay a real question, grounded in concern for her safety and even, she knew, an awareness of their audience. "Spare me humiliation, if you can," she answered, smiling as she lifted Framwine, "but humility you may dole out as you please."

Elfhelm's dark eyes gleamed with approval, and that was all the warning she had before he lunged at her with the first attack. By pure instinct, she managed to block it, but her answering strike was batted away as easily as a troublesome fly. This went on for perhaps thirty seconds before he knocked Framwine out of her weakened grip, sending it spiraling towards the targets.

Her cheeks flaming—because of course Heahtor and his friends were still watching—she trotted over to retrieve her sword. "Not a word," she warned a smirking Elfhelm when she returned, bracing herself for another round of penance.

And penance it was. Elfhelm defeated her no fewer than seven times; only once did she repay him in kind, though it was a mere fluke that her blade slipped past his and bounced off his shoulder. Even more embarrassing, she noticed him holding back on several occasions to allow her to catch her breath—and worse, she was grateful for the respite.

"I thought your uncle said she was good?" she overheard one of Heahtor's friends ask him doubtfully.

By now, others had begun to arrive at the training grounds. Many of them stopped in astonishment when they saw the king's sister, and Gúthwyn's spirits were lifted by their joyous welcomes. She was less pleased, however, when they all wanted to spar with her.

"I supposed I should let them have a turn," Elfhelm said, clapping her on the shoulder and grinning when her knees nearly buckled. "I wish you luck—you are going to need it."

"Your kindness is overwhelming."

He laughed at her again—not for the last time that day, she suspected—and then said, more seriously, "It is good to have you back."

"Thank you, Elfhelm." With a grateful smile, she left him and approached Hunwald, who had requested the dubious honor of being her second partner.

"I have been improving," he said proudly—his strength had always lain with the bow, and she had seldom been required to exert herself against him, save for a few delicate maneuverings to spare him unkind remarks from the other men.

"Regrettably, I have not," she told him.

And just a few minutes later, Hunwald was thrilled to claim his first victory against Lady Gúthwyn.

It was, without a doubt, the worst training session she had had since her days in Mordor. One by one, she lost to what felt like every soldier in Edoras, including those whom she ordinarily could have defeated with one hand tied behind her back. It was not that she had forgotten how to defend herself, or that her reflexes had slowed—well, perhaps a little—but rather that she had lost a great deal of her strength and stamina. By the end of each match, she was so out of breath that she could scarcely keep up with her partner's movements, and as the morning wore on it became more and more difficult to simply raise her sword.

And yet, as mortifying as it all was, as much teasing as she endured from the men, and as much as she knew her body would regret everything the next day, she could not stop grinning. With Framwine in her hands once more, and the familiar thrill of facing off against an opponent, she felt more like herself than she had in years. She could not imagine how it had taken her this long to return.

Halfway through the morning, Elfhelm stopped by just as she was losing to Anborn. "Care for a rematch?" he asked as she thanked Anborn ruefully and retrieved Framwine from the ground.

"I doubt the result would be much different," she grumbled. Her arms had been shaking for the past hour, and she hoped no one had noticed.

"Unlikely," Elfhelm agreed, with far too much cheer in his voice, "but you might as well enjoy it, because afterwards you are going to rest until tomorrow."

"It is not even noon," she protested, ignoring the sense in his advice. "I always—"

"You just came back for the first time in years. Éomer would have my hide if I let you injure yourself under my watch."

"Are you going to stop me?" she was unable to resist asking, as if in her current state he would have had any difficulty in doing precisely that.

Elfhelm raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. "You cannot very well spar without a partner," he pointed out, "and the men here know better than to defy a Marshal's orders."

Gúthwyn's mouth dropped open. "You are sabotaging my training!"

"Let us make a wager, then," he suggested. "If you can defeat me here and now, you may continue until you have thoroughly exhausted yourself."

"Fine," she agreed, an instant before she attacked him.

Unfortunately, Elfhelm had anticipated the ruse. He effortlessly parried her strike, then returned with several of his own; she had no hope of meeting them, and she gave way like grass parting under a gust of wind. To add insult to injury—or perhaps injury to insult—she did not pay enough attention to her surroundings, and as a result she tripped over someone's discarded water pouch.

She landed flat on her back, the wind knocked completely out of her lungs. Before she could draw in a shaky breath, the blunted tip of Elfhelm's sword was pressed against her neck. "Do you yield?" he asked.

Idly, she wondered which had accumulated more bruises today: her body or her pride. Yet she never had the chance to answer, for in that moment a familiar face peered down at her.

"Cobryn," she said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to come and see this for myself," he replied, his features rippling with amusement and disbelief. "You look like you lost every single match today."

"That would be correct," she managed.

"Auntie Gúthwyn, are you all right?" Elfwine appeared in her field of vision, looking at her in worry. "That was a very big fall."

"Yes, I am—little one, what are you doing here? Did you come with Cobryn?"

"He did," Cobryn answered. "Éomer had a meeting, but he told me he would have dearly loved to witness this. He also told me to remind you not to overexert yourself."

"What did I tell you?" Elfhelm had apparently decided to spare her the embarrassment of formally declaring his victory, for he sheathed his sword and allowed her to sit up.

"But how did you all know I was here?" she asked, glancing between Elfwine and Cobryn.

"Lebryn," Cobryn explained.

"He said you were _terrible_ ," Elfwine added, his expression hovering between amusement and concern.

"He did not put it in quite those terms," Cobryn said as Elfhelm bellowed with laughter.

"Are you really that bad?" Elfwine wanted to know.

At first, Gúthwyn was inclined to feel offended, but she had to admit that she had no ground to stand on (quite literally, considering she was not even on her feet). "Let this be a lesson to you, little one," she said: "that if you neglect your training it will be very difficult to regain your skills, and in the meantime everyone will tease you."

"I will never neglect my training," Elfwine vowed. "I asked Leggy to practice with me today, but Faelon came back and they had to talk."

Gúthwyn straightened. "Faelon came back?" It was Faelon who had been entrusted with delivering the news of her and Legolas's betrothal to Thranduil; he had left a couple of days after Legolas's return. So the Elvenking had responded at last, but whether he had chosen to acknowledge his son's future wife remained to be seen.

And she was not about to raise her hopes.

"I tried to hear what they were saying," Elfwine told her, "but they were speaking Sindarin and I could only understand 'hello' and 'no.' I think Leggy said 'father,' but I am not sure."

Gúthwyn exchanged a glance with Cobryn. "Well, I suppose we should go and see what news he has," she said, more to herself than Elfwine.

In any event, her nephew was no longer paying attention—he had spotted Hunwald, his favorite archer in Legolas's absence, and was speeding towards him for presumably yet another discussion on tactics. After a moment, Cobryn followed, murmuring something about rescuing Hunwald.

As Gúthwyn stood, brushing the dirt off her leggings, she saw Elfhelm remove his gaze from Cobryn, and for reasons she could not explain she had the oddest feeling that she had missed some form of silent communication between the two men.

Elfhelm cleared his throat, a prelude to confirming her suspicions. "Speaking of Legolas, you seem to be spending a great deal of time with him."

"Oh?" She rubbed more vigorously at her leggings, as if she had discovered a troublesome spot of dirt. "No more than usual, I think."

"Mm." Elfhelm sounded rather unconvinced, and as she continued attending to her clothes, he added, "He has been here for nearly two months now, has he not? I do not recall him ever staying this long before."

"He has been helping Elfwine with his training," she lied automatically, her heart beginning to race. Éomer had given her the excuse in the event of someone asking questions, and at the time she had thought it a needless precaution—but already Hildeth and Balman knew, and now Elfhelm was guessing at the truth. How many others had noticed? Were rumors spreading without her knowledge? What if they somehow reached Hammel and Haiweth?

There was another pause, during which she realized she had extended her grooming pretenses beyond all possible justification, and she looked up to see Elfhelm's keen gaze upon her.

"Helping Elfwine," the Marshal repeated.

"Indeed," she answered, making her best attempt at a neutral expression.

Much to her relief, Cobryn returned with Elfwine before Elfhelm could probe any further. In her eagerness to be away, Gúthwyn no longer protested the necessity of abandoning her training so early; on the contrary, she was all too glad to sheathe Framwine and depart with Cobryn and her nephew.

"So, if that match and Lebryn's report were any indicator, I take it you found returning less easier than you had hoped?" Cobryn asked as they left the training grounds, stopping only for Gúthwyn to make assurances that she would return on the morrow.

"That would be an understatement."

"Maybe Leggy can help you practice," Elfwine suggested earnestly.

Gúthwyn gave him a noncommittal smile, and a few seconds later he darted ahead to say hello to a group of boys his age.

"I also tried to observe Legolas and Faelon's conversation," Cobryn admitted once Elfwine was out of earshot.

"Could you tell anything by their expressions?"

He nodded. "I do not think Faelon brought the response Legolas was hoping for."

"I had a feeling that would be the case," Gúthwyn said, sighing. "I told Legolas I do not need his father to write to me, but I know he is taking it personally."

"It is personal, is it not?" Cobryn asked. "If King Thranduil cannot even pretend to be civil to you, with full awareness of how important it is to Legolas."

"Oh, I do not believe he will ignore me or treat me rudely when our paths cross," Gúthwyn hastened to assure him. "After all, he gave me—well, Legolas—one of his wife's rings to use for the betrothal ceremony. He would not have done that if he had not at least accepted the marriage. I just think he might not wish to congratulate me on taking his son away from him, which is how he sees it."

"But you did not take his son away from him—Legolas fell in love with you, and Thranduil was the one who damaged their relationship by interfering. And I am not so sure that ring is a token of goodwill," Cobryn said grimly.

Gúthwyn's optimism began to waver. "What do you mean? It belonged to Legolas's mother, and now he is letting me wear it."

"Yes, but not for long." When Gúthwyn gave him a confused look, he elaborated, "I thought you told me that Elves exchange betrothal rings, which are then given back during the marriage ceremony and replaced with new ones."

"Well, yes—" Gúthwyn stopped short as she realized where Cobryn was going with this. "Oh, surely not—"

Cobryn nodded. "Thranduil gave you his wife's ring knowing full well that you were just going to be giving it back to Legolas in a few months' time."

"But that is so—so—"

"Underhanded," Cobryn supplied. "And I am sure whatever he gave you was the least used and least cherished of his wife's rings. Something he could temporarily part from with little resentment."

Gúthwyn did her best to recover from this unpleasant surprise. "Well, I do not wish to rob him of her jewelry. And he did give something to me, no matter what else."

"I hope this is not going to devolve into another Lothíriel situation," Cobryn said sharply, "where you will turn the other cheek every time King Thranduil insults you so as not to inconvenience Legolas."

"It most certainly will not," Gúthwyn insisted as they neared the steps to the Golden Hall. "Legolas is not Éomer. He knows exactly what his father thinks of me, and I have learned my lesson about not confiding in him on that regard. But I personally would rather spend as little time with Thranduil as possible, so I do not want Legolas to be troubled on my account. If we can all just be cordial to one another, I do not need his approval, and I would only desire it for Legolas's sake."

Before Cobryn could respond, she turned around and scanned the street for Elfwine. Seeing that he was now engrossed in a game of tag with the other boys, and several parents were keeping an eye on them, she waited until he glanced over and then waved, gesturing to indicate that she and Cobryn would be going inside. Elfwine waved back and then raced off after his friends.

"Be as it may," Cobryn continued as they climbed the stairs, "you should not find excuses for his behavior. If he truly cares about Legolas, then he ought to make amends with you, or at the very least find it in his heart to do what little Legolas is asking of him. Attending the betrothal ceremony would be a start. And the wedding."

"Do you think he might not—?"

The doors swung open before them, and they fell silent, for Legolas and Faelon were standing close to the entrance. Both Elves glanced over; upon seeing Gúthwyn, Faelon nodded at Legolas and slipped away.

"I think I shall do some reading," Cobryn said—then he, too, was gone, leaving Gúthwyn and Legolas together.

"I see Faelon is back," she ventured hesitantly.

The smile Legolas gave her did not quite reach his eyes, and his shoulders were slumped beneath an invisible weight. "Let us sit down," he suggested.

They found a table in one of the furthest corners of the room, and Gúthwyn braced herself for the worst.

"I have some good news," Legolas said, surprising her. "Tauriel will be joining us at the colony. She will be the captain of your guard."

In her anxiety over Thranduil, Gúthwyn had forgotten about the matter of Tauriel's employment, and she exclaimed, "That is wonderful! I am so glad—but—she is not in trouble with your father, is she?"

"It sounds like it was a mutual decision," Legolas said. "She has written to tell me that she is eager to join our household, and she is looking forward to giving you a better impression of herself than the one you received at the feast."

"Well, none of that was her fault," Gúthwyn was swift to point out. "But if she is apologizing for that, then I will apologize for my jealousy of her, which I am embarrassed to say was reflected in my conduct toward her that night. Then perhaps we shall be even."

"You were very polite to her when I introduced the two of you," Legolas remarked, puzzled.

"Yes, but then I practically ran away from her when she started extolling your virtues."

Legolas chuckled at her chagrined expression, though his response was gentle, with no hint of teasing. "I am sure she does not blame you for that."

She hoped he was right—she still could not recall some parts of that feast without cringing in embarrassment.

"Tauriel also said to give her regards to Elfwine," Legolas added with a small grin.

"That will make his week." Legolas had told her about Elfwine expressing a desire to marry Tauriel, and no doubt this would only further fan the flames of his admiration. Gúthwyn hoped it was merely a childish infatuation, and he would not be too disappointed when nothing came of it.

 _Although I of all people should know better than to think it beyond the realm of possibility,_ she reminded herself in amusement.

Quickly, however, she returned to her senses. "And what word from your father?" she asked hesitatingly, looking at Legolas.

His sigh echoed the disappointment in his expression. "He has written to congratulate me, but he says he will not be able to attend the betrothal ceremony, as he has already promised to attend the Midsummer celebrations at Dale."

Gúthwyn's jaw dropped, as did her heart. "Legolas, I am so sorry."

He could not disguise his hurt; the hand holding his father's letter trembled. In a voice laced with bitterness, he said, "I suppose I cannot claim to be surprised. I should never have hoped—I should never have thought he might do otherwise."

"Did he say anything about the wedding?" she asked, almost afraid to find out.

Legolas shook his head.

"Well—I am sure he will come—" She faltered, having no such certainty, and at length exhaled. "I am sorry, I know this is not what you wanted."

"Not just for myself," Legolas said, "but for you as well. By refusing to attend the betrothal, he is openly rejecting you before all our people."

"Surely everyone is already aware that he disapproves of me?" Gúthwyn could not imagine any Elf in either Eryn Lasgalen or the colony had been left in the dark concerning Thranduil's opinion of her.

"They are," Legolas said ruefully, "but even a pretense of acceptance would have set an example from which few would dare to deviate."

"I see." In what she hoped was a casual voice, she asked, "Do you think, then, that many of your people will, er, follow his lead in rejecting me?"

"It changes nothing if they do," Legolas was quick to reassure her. "They will simply have to get used to seeing you at my side, and moreover they will have to afford you the respect you deserve as their princess." Seeing her uneasy look, he softened and added, "I think the majority of them will come around, once they have grown accustomed to your presence. And there will be others, like Tauriel and Trelan and Faelon, who will welcome you with open arms. It is only a small number whom I fear may require more convincing."

"Such as Raniean."

Legolas's mouth thinned. "Yes. Like him."

And how many others were there like Raniean, Gúthwyn wondered? Elves with memories that stretched back all the way to the Last Alliance, when they and their families had been betrayed by a group of Woodmen?

Legolas sensed her misgivings. "Raniean's refusal to let go of his anger has isolated him from most of his peers. Those few who are like-minded remain in Eryn Lasgalen, where they can ignore the world outside our borders. They will not trouble you at the colony, and I will see to it that they do not trouble you when we visit my father."

"Will your father allow us to visit?" Gúthwyn inquired uncertainly.

"He will," Legolas vowed, his eyes dark. "At first he dared to suggest that I alone could visit, and that later our child would accompany me, but I told him that I would never agree to such an arrangement, and under no circumstances would our child travel to any place where both of his parents were not welcome."

"His?" Gúthwyn asked after a moment.

Legolas started. "Or hers."

She grinned; already the pall Thranduil had cast over their conversation seemed to be lifting. "Or both."

"Or both," Legolas agreed, and for a moment the light returned to his eyes; yet then it faded, as stars that were thrust behind a cloud. "I am sorry that he is treating you this way. It is not right of him."

"I know you would not have me make excuses for his conduct," she replied, "but I now understand his views, and I regret only that it is you he is hurting in his determination to disavow me. I am not upset by his rejection, but I wish for your sake that he had consented to attend our betrothal, and I am sorry that he did not."

"As am I," Legolas said quietly. "But it appears he has made his choice."

Gúthwyn would have liked to reply with a comforting sentiment, if indeed there existed any that might have brought him some measure of solace; yet before she could speak, they were approached by Elflede, who glanced curiously between them while asking if they wanted something to eat.

Realizing that she was still holding Framwine and in desperate need of a change of clothes, Gúthwyn stood up to go to her room, then felt all her muscles seize up and reconsidered.

"Is something wrong, my lady?" Elflede asked.

"No, but I have a great deal of work to do if I want any hope of defeating someone with this," Gúthwyn said, gesturing to the blade.

"Oh, my lady!" Elflede's eyes widened. "Are you fighting again?"

"Yes, it seems the desire has finally returned."

Elflede seemed to think this answer merited another odd look at Legolas, whose smile was returning as he listened to Gúthwyn. Yet not long after, when Éomund's daughter left the hall to exchange her dirt-smeared leggings and tunic for a more suitable outfit, she glanced back and saw him staring off into the distance, dwelling once again on his remote, unyielding father.

And although she would have been quite happy to go the rest of her life without seeing King Thranduil again, she vowed then and there that she would never forgive him if he did not attend the wedding.

* * *

 **Response to RP911:** I hope your exam went well! And yes, you will have to keep being patient for Gúthwyn and Hammel's confrontation... which I may or may not have just written. ;)


	14. The Liar's Truth

**Chapter Fourteen**

Gúthwyn made the mistake of getting out of bed the next morning and immediately wished she had not. Every muscle in her body was aching, a testament to how unprepared she had been for her return to the training grounds. Her arms and shoulders were the worst of all: she could scarcely reach above her head, and she could not imagine how she was going to get dressed.

To stave off that unhappy trial, she hauled herself over to her desk and wrote a letter to Éowyn. Dearly missing her youngest nephew, she made numerous inquiries about Elboron's wellbeing and exhorted Éowyn to keep her updated on his activities. His birthday had passed recently, and Éomer and Lothíriel had sent him an adorable cape lined with embroidery and a matching pair of gloves; Gúthwyn had enlisted Haiweth and Cobryn to create a small book about the various animals of Middle-earth, and she hoped it would amuse him to look at the pictures.

When her letter was done, she resigned herself to removing her nightgown and changing into suitable clothes for the day. Her entire body protested at the exertions demanded of this simple activity, and she was wincing by the time her the garment fell to the floor. The thought of having to put on another dress, this one with stiffer fabric and constricting laces, was not in the least appealing.

Her eyes fell on Framwine, still resting atop her trunk, and she smiled. Borogor had once told her that stiff muscles needed exercise, not rest.

 _And I need them ready for when Tauriel comes._

Several minutes later, she entered the hall garbed in leggings and a tunic, Framwine hanging at her side. Spotting Éomer, Elfwine, and Cobryn at a table, she made her way over to them, trying not to cringe with each step.

Éomer grinned when he saw her hobbling towards them. "Good morning, sister. I did not realize you so enjoyed the taste of defeat."

"The sooner I return, the quicker I will taste victory," she answered, sitting next to Elfwine and ruffling the boy's hair.

Elfwine gave her an unusually distracted greeting, and she saw that he and Cobryn were staring intently at a piece of parchment, onto which someone—she guessed Cobryn, judging by their steadiness of hand—had drawn several short, horizontal lines. A couple of these had letters above them; below the lines was written an _m_ and an _e_.

"What are you two doing?"

"Playing a game," Elfwine answered, his voice filled with excitement. "I have to guess the letters in Cobryn's word."

Gúthwyn looked at the lines. "Is that the word?"

"Yes, and it has eleven letters," Elfwine said proudly.

"That is a lot of letters," Gúthwyn replied, casting a doubtful glance at Cobryn, who shrugged.

"'Elfwine' was too easy for him."

"And I got 'Númenor,' Elfwine hastily added, lest Cobryn forget. "And 'Legolas' and 'Papa' and you, too, Auntie Gúthwyn."

"Well, someone here is very clever," Gúthwyn said with a grin. "What are the _m_ and the _e_ for? At the bottom of the page?"

"If he guesses a letter that is not part of the word, I add another letter in _mearh_ ," Cobryn explained. "If I spell it out before he guesses my word, I win. If he guesses it before I spell out _mearh_ , he wins."

" _B_ ," Elfwine said suddenly.

With a smile and a shake of his head, Cobryn added an _a_ to the letters at the bottom, and Elfwine groaned.

Gúthwyn watched them for another minute, Elfwine gradually filling in more of the lines with correct guesses. At one point Éomer leaned over to examine the parchment; he must have figured out the word, for he returned to his breakfast without another look. It took Gúthwyn much longer, and in the end she only worked it out a few seconds before Elfwine, whose triumphant cry of "Calenardhon!" rang through the hall.

Of course, Elfwine immediately wanted to play again, and Gúthwyn decided to leave him and Cobryn to it. Turning to Éomer, she asked him if he had seen Legolas that morning.

"Yes, he went to the archery range not an hour ago." Éomer shot her a curious look. "He seemed out of sorts. Is something wrong?"

Aware of Elfwine listening in, Gúthwyn hesitated before replying, "His father will not be able to come to the betrothal ceremony."

There was a loud _thunk_ as Éomer set down his cup. " _What_?"

Gúthwyn cast a worried glance at Elfwine, who was now unabashedly eavesdropping. "He had already accepted the king of Dale's invitation to attend the midsummer festivities there."

"I have not had dealings with the king of Dale," Éomer growled, "but I cannot imagine he would be so unreasonable as to begrudge the absence of a guest whose only son was plighting his troth!"

"Auntie Gúthwyn, does Leggy's papa not like you?" Elfwine wanted to know. "Because you are a human? Is he like Leggy's friend Raniean?" While Gúthwyn was deliberating on the best way to answer, he added, "Does that mean he does not like me? Or Papa?"

"It has nothing to do with you, little one," Gúthwyn said firmly. "King Thranduil was very kind to you and your father when you met him. He is just…"

Éomer muttered something uncharitable under his breath, and she gave him a reproving glance. "Never mind that," she told Elfwine. "King Thranduil is concerned that Legolas will be upset once I die. If I were an Elf, he would not have this concern. He only wants what is best for Legolas."

Elfwine's clever eyes flicked between her and Éomer, searching for anything that had been left unspoken. After a moment, he looked back at her and said, "I think you are what is best for Leggy."

She was certain her heart melted; at the very least, her smile was so wide it hurt. "Thank you, little one. That means a lot to me."

As if that had settled the matter, Elfwine beamed and returned his attention to Cobryn, who exchanged one last look with Gúthwyn before he, too, bent his head over the parchment. While they were thus occupied, Gúthwyn frowned at Éomer, who remained unrepentant.

"He is insulting you, baby sister," he cautioned in a low voice. "Think of how noticeable his absence will be. And I am not just talking about what it will look like to our guests—what about the Elves in Eryn Lasgalen and at the colony? You are to be their princess, and yet their king refuses to acknowledge you. What sort of impression will that give them?"

"I know it is not ideal," Gúthwyn allowed, "but Legolas believes that the Elves who are likely to object to me are living in Eryn Lasgalen, not the colony. He says I will not have to deal with them."

Éomer was watching her skeptically, but she did not waver—she trusted Legolas, and she knew he would not let her walk unknowingly into a volatile political situation. "Besides," she continued, "it is harder on Legolas. He was quite hurt by his father's letter, though he tried not to show it. If I did not think it would make things worse, I would write to Thranduil myself and urge him to come for Legolas's sake."

"And what about the wedding?"

"I hope he accepts our invitation, though I fear he will not."

Éomer shook his head. "Perhaps it is for the best. If he is going to sit there and glower at you the whole time, then he is better off sulking in his halls. I will not have him insulting you here."

Gúthwyn made no reply, and Éomer, perhaps because of Elfwine's presence, did not raise the subject again. Eventually Elfwine and Cobryn finished their game, and Elfwine left to reunite with Onyveth, who had evidently promised to tell him a secret (although this information did not impress his audience as much as he had hoped). Since Éomer and Cobryn looked to be discussing council matters, Gúthwyn ate a light fare and then excused herself to go to the training grounds.

When Elfhelm saw her, a wide grin broke across his sun-worn features. "I had a feeling you would be back," he said, before turning around and shouting, "Éothain! What did I tell you?"

A moment later, the younger Rider appeared, casting a sheepish glance at Gúthwyn as he forked two coins over to Elfhelm.

"You placed bets on whether I would return?" Gúthwyn asked, not knowing whether to feel indignant or amused. With Éothain, she was more inclined towards the former. "You bet against me?"

Éothain reddened as he muttered, "You had a couple of hard falls, my lady. I thought perhaps you would want to rest today."

Gúthwyn could not find it in her heart to be truly angry with him, for she was well aware that her training schedule had been embarrassingly nonexistent over the past couple of years, and yesterday's fiasco would not have convinced anyone of her competence.

"At some point in the future," she warned him, "I will remind you that the House of Eorl is not to be so easily cowed. Until then, I am at Elfhelm's mercy. Shall we spar, my lord?" she asked the Marshal, who grinned as he pocketed his earnings.

Her words proved prophetic. Her former strength was still a tantalizing memory, as was her endurance, and although she knew how to meet each of Elfhelm's attacks, her muscles were slow to respond, every movement underscored with pain from the day before. Yet even this, as pathetic as it was, felt better than doing nothing; and when it was near to lunch, she left the training grounds in a state of cautious optimism. She was still nowhere near ready to face Tauriel, but she had managed to remain on her feet the whole morning, and that was a start.

While she was walking back to Meduseld, she saw Elfwine dart onto the road in front of her, his expression dark as a thundercloud. Wondering what had upset him, Gúthwyn quickened her pace, catching up to him just before the stairs. "Little one, is something wrong?"

"Auntie Gúthwyn!" His voice was filled with wrath, but it was not directed at her, and she had only an instant to guess at the real recipient when he declared, "I _hate_ Onyveth!"

She blinked in surprise. "You hate Onyveth? She is your friend."

"Not anymore!" he cried hotly. "She is a foul liar and I never want to speak to her again."

Gúthwyn was all the more puzzled—she had only ever seen Elfwine this angry when she once made the mistake of calling Elboron "little one," and she could not imagine what similar transgression an eight-year-old girl might have committed. "What did she lie about?"

"You!" Elfwine's eyes flashed, a formidable echo of both his father and his mother. "She said terrible things about you and I told her they were not true and she said they were true and her papa told her—"

Gúthwyn stayed him by the shoulder before he could stomp up the stairs—whatever Onyveth had claimed, she knew she did not want the guards on the landing to overhear. "What did Onyveth say?" she asked, her mouth dry.

"She said you were a slave!"

His words were like a blow that she had only a split second to prepare for. "A-A slave?" she echoed, cursing herself for not having had the foresight to discuss this with Lebryn sooner.

"Yes!" Elfwine's hands curled into fists as he glowered at the memory. "She said that you and her papa and Cobryn were all slaves at Isengard when Saruman the bad wizard ruled there, and her papa got his arm bitten off by a Warg and your face got eaten, too, which is stupid because your face is still here!" He glanced up at her all the same, as if reassuring himself.

Gúthwyn felt frozen in place; her left cheek, to which she had given little thought in the years since the war, but was in fact still the slightest shade lighter than the other, suddenly throbbed in memory. Poor Chalibeth had fallen that day, and then… and then the darkness…

"Oh, little one," she said, for Elfwine was waiting expectantly for her denial, and in all his innocence she knew it would not have even occurred to him that Onyveth might be telling the truth. Yet he was perceptive beyond his years, and it would not escape his notice if she failed to dismiss Onyveth's charges.

And she wanted to. She wanted so desperately to look him in the eyes and assure him that she had no idea where Onyveth had gotten that silly notion from; of course she had never been a slave, and anyone who said otherwise was to be ignored. But the words she needed did not come, and she knew they never would.

Just as Elfwine's eyes were starting to narrow in confusion, she said, "Thank you for defending me. That was very kind of you."

It was agonizing to watch how swiftly the doubt in Elfwine's eyes faded. "Onyveth is a stupid liar," he scoffed. "Leggy is my favorite friend now."

Gúthwyn had to bite her lip to keep the tears at bay. "I am sure he will be glad to hear that. What say you we have a picnic for lunch, just the two of us?"

Elfwine readily agreed, and his excitement multiplied when she suggested that they leave the city—this meant bringing horses, and therefore a chance for him to show off his skill at riding. Between gathering all the necessary supplies and confirming with Éomer that they would not be missing any lessons (she did not think Elfwine would be inclined to inform her if this were the case), they did not set out until almost an hour later, and it was high noon when they rode past the gates, waving merrily at Balman.

Éomer had requested that a guard accompany them, and inconvenient though it was, Gúthwyn did not begrudge him this precaution for Elfwine's sake. Ceorl and Eanwulf had promised to remain out of earshot, and she knew they would keep their word.

When Elfwine had had his fill of racing across the plains (which took a surprisingly short time, and she suspected his stomach was the culprit), they spread a blanket on the same hilltop where they ate with Legolas, and Elfwine eagerly unpacked the food the cooks had given them. Gúthwyn was in no hurry to raise the subject of Isengard, so she asked Elfwine how his lessons were coming.

"I like sword-fighting and archery the best," he told her. "Leggy is my favorite teacher, but I like Elfhelm and Gamling, too. Did you know that soon I will fit into King Théoden's armor from when he was my age? Papa said I can wear it for practice so I will know what it is like to fight in a real battle!"

Gúthwyn smiled. She had heard about this from Éomer, and she had a feeling Elfwine would be disappointed by how long "soon" was—the suit in question had been commissioned for Théoden's tenth birthday as a present from his mother, Morwen. It was purely ceremonial, and since Théoden had been rather broad of shoulder, Elfwine had some growing to do.

"You will look very handsome," she said, "but I am sure your father warned you that it is much more difficult to fight with full armor. You may find that you cannot move as quickly as you are used to, and that you tire sooner."

Elfwine nodded, though he plainly did not believe that such difficulties would ever befall him. "Does Leggy wear armor?"

"I only saw him in armor once, at Helm's Deep," Gúthwyn answered. "Elves are quite fast and strong, so I imagine they do not need the same protection as Men."

Elfwine pondered this for a moment. "Auntie Gúthwyn?"

"Yes, little one?"

"How come you stopped fighting for so long? Was it because you were sad because of Leggy?"

Gúthwyn looked at him in amazement. Had she ever been so attuned to the adults around her when she was his age? She wondered how much of it was natural, and how much he had learned while tiptoeing around his parents. "I think that was part of it," she hedged, recalling how little she had desired to do anything after Legolas's departure for Dorwinion. "Yet also when I was in Ithilien I missed my home, and the training grounds and the soldiers here."

Elfwine's brow furrowed; she did not know if he was simply absorbing the information, or if what he had heard was not to his liking. "Does that mean you will stop fighting again when you marry Leggy? Because you will be going away with him to his home?"

"No, not this time," Gúthwyn assured him. "Tauriel will be coming with us to the colony, and I will need to practice every day if I am to have any hope of challenging her."

Elfwine straightened. "Tauriel is going to be there?"

"Yes, she will be the captain of my guard." Gúthwyn hid a smile, knowing well her nephew's interest in Tauriel—and it was only partly because of the Elven woman's skill with a blade.

Sure enough, Elfwine thought furiously for a few seconds, then asked, "Can I come visit you and Uncle Leggy? And Tauriel?"

"Of course you can—whenever you and your parents want. And Legolas and Tauriel and I will be visiting, too."

"Can you teach me Sindarin? So I can speak to all the Elves?"

Chuckling, Gúthwyn said, "I am sure Legolas would be a better teacher. You might already know more than I do."

Elfwine looked at her in alarm. "But how are you going to talk to the Elves?"

"I believe I will have a tutor," Gúthwyn ventured—she could not imagine Legolas would have the time to teach her when they were at the colony. "With any luck, I will not be a hopeless case."

"You have to learn," Elfwine said seriously. "Mama…"

"What about your mother?" Gúthwyn asked when he fell silent, staring down at the picnic blanket. "Little one, you can talk to me about her, I will never begrudge you that."

With a skeptical look, Elfwine muttered, "Mama says it is bad not to know how to speak to your subjects. She says I am lucky."

Gúthwyn inclined her head; she did not trust her brother's wife in most matters, but this was an area in which the queen had ample expertise. "I will do my best to learn Sindarin," she promised Elfwine, who was watching her worriedly. "And when you come to visit, you will learn as well."

This seemed to appease Elfwine, at least temporarily; the wrinkles smoothed out from his brow, only to form again in seconds. "Do you have to go away again? Mama says you do, but maybe she is wrong."

He gave her a hopeful look, and she had no choice but to disappoint him. "I am sorry, little one. You know Legolas is a prince, and he has to be with his people."

"He is not with his people right now."

Gúthwyn could not help but smile. "Not right now, no, but he cannot be away for too long. Once we are married, he will need to return. And I will go with him, just like your mother left her home to come here, and your aunt Éowyn left Rohan to live with Uncle Faramir in Emyn Arnen."

Elfwine mulled this over. "Mama says girls always have to leave when they get married, and boys do not have to. Is this true? Even when the boys are not princes or kings like Leggy and Papa? What if a queen marries? Does she have to go away and stop being a queen? If you were a princess, could Leggy stay here?"

"You are full of questions today," Gúthwyn remarked, buying herself some time as she scrambled to find the answers. "I think a queen would be an exception—her husband would have to come to her so that he could be the king. But otherwise the wife leaves her home to join her husband, whether he be in a faraway land or only two houses down the road. Not even a princess can stay."

Elfwine scrunched up his nose. "That does not seem very fair."

"No, it is not," Gúthwyn agreed quietly.

In the next instant, however, she wished she had not spoken, for Elfwine immediately fixed her with his sharp gaze. "Do you want to stay here instead of going with Leggy?"

She swallowed. "I would of course love to live here with him, if that were possible," she ventured, keenly aware that everything she said might be repeated to Legolas. "Since it is not, however, I will be writing many letters to you and your father. And I will look forward to when you can all visit."

Elfwine scrutinized her, his brown eyes peering up at her from beneath long lashes. Her forced cheeriness must have passed muster, albeit barely—he did not pose any further questions, but he looked rather disgruntled as he bit into his bread roll.

At length he brightened. "Does this mean that Onyveth will have to leave when she gets married?"

Gúthwyn forced herself not to look away from her nephew. "Elfwine, there is something I must tell you."

"What is it?" Elfwine lowered his bread, but she faltered, unable to find the right words. "Auntie Gúthwyn, what is it?"

She wondered what he would think of her, how she might sink in his estimation, if she told him.

 _It is not too late. You can still change your mind._

But it was too late. Elfwine's friendship with Onyveth would be damaged, perhaps irreparably, if she allowed him to continue believing Onyveth was a liar, and this was not fair to either Onyveth or Lebryn. Moreover, her disappearance from Rohan was public knowledge, and while few had ever dared to ask her about it, she suspected that many had guessed at least some of the details. It would not be long before Elfwine heard another whisper about her past, before someone else told him where his beloved aunt had been before the War.

There was nothing she could do, save speak. "Onyveth is not a liar. Everything she said is true."

Elfwine jerked back as if she had struck him; she prayed that it was in shock, not in disgust. "What?"

"It was a long time ago," she said quietly. "I was only a few years older than you when one of Saruman's servants kidnapped me and brought me to Isengard. That is how I met Lebryn—he was already a slave there, as was Cobryn."

She had not thought it possible for Elfwine's eyes to grow any rounder, but they did. For what felt like an interminable moment, speech utterly failed him.

Then he asked, "Cobryn was a slave?"

"Yes," she answered, trying to ignore the knots twisting in her stomach.

"And Onyveth's papa, too?"

"Yes, him too."

Elfwine looked directly into her eyes. "And you?"

Her voice was hardly above a whisper; she had tried to swallow her shame, and now it was choking her. "And me."

He continued to watch her, examining every aspect of her countenance with an intensity that was unnerving in a child of his age. Just when she thought she could bear it no longer, he asked, "Why did someone take you away? How come Papa and King Théoden did not stop them?"

"Your father never had a chance—he was shot with an arrow before anyone knew I was the target, as was Aunt Éowyn. Both of them fell to the ground as if dead. Indeed, it was not until I returned to Rohan that I learned they were still alive. As for Théoden…"

She paused, remembering how many years she had spent hating her uncle, and how their relationship had never recovered before his death. She did not know how long it would have taken her to forgive him, or if she would ever have come to love him again the way she had as a child.

Elfwine was still waiting for an answer, so she sighed and said, "He could not abandon your father and Aunt Éowyn. By the time he was able to ride after me, it was too late."

Elfwine's mouth turned into a small "o." "Were you scared?" he asked, and Gúthwyn nodded. "Did you see the wizard Saruman? Papa said he could control everyone with his voice."

"I did not see him often. Lebryn, Cobryn, and I spent most of our days cleaning, working in the forges, or feeding the Wargs."

"The Wargs?" Elfwine echoed in astonishment. "You fed the Wargs?"

Gúthwyn was unable to repress a shudder. "They were disgusting, repulsive creatures. I hope they all drowned when Isengard was flooded."

"Were you really bitten by one?" Elfwine blurted out.

"I was." Trying not to recall the horror of that day, she leaned over and turned her left cheek toward Elfwine. "If you look very closely, you might be able to see the scarring. It is very faint, and no one ever notices it."

It took Elfwine several seconds of scrutiny, but at last she felt his fingertip brush against the former center of the wound. "I think I see it," he said in awe. "Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore."

Elfwine continued to stare at her, his astonishment eventually fading into a more thoughtful expression. "Auntie Gúthwyn, how come you never told me this before?"

She tried to smile, but all that came out was a wobbling grimace. "Somehow you always manage to ask the difficult questions."

Elfwine's forehead wrinkled. "Is that bad?"

"It is good for you," she told him. "You are very perceptive, and that will be useful when you start taking on more duties as a prince. But other times…"

She paused, but the weight of Elfwine's gaze was too much to endure. "Little one, there are some things you are just too young to hear, though you may think you are old enough. And there are some things that are unpleasant even to grown-ups' ears. Yet I would be lying if I said I was only trying to protect you by not speaking of my time as a slave—I am also protecting myself so that I do not have to remember it."

"Because it is scary?" Elfwine guessed, and she nodded. "Are Cobryn and Onyveth's papa protecting themselves, too?"

"If Onyveth's father told her about Isengard, he must be willing to discuss it with her. But I do not think Cobryn likes to speak of it."

Elfwine went quiet, pondering this, and Gúthwyn used the time to brace herself for what she knew she had to do next. "There is something else I have to tell you," she began, wiping her clammy palms against her leggings. "Enough people know, or suspect, and I do not want you to hear this from someone else first."

Elfwine narrowed his eyes as she removed her right wrist brace, keeping the Enemy's brand out of view for as long as she could. Then, with a deep breath, she turned her palm towards him and revealed the foul Eye that had been branded onto her skin so long ago.

Her nephew gasped, and for the first time he looked frightened. "Auntie Gúthwyn, I have seen that before! In my bad dreams."

"Do you know what it is?" she asked in surprise, wondering if he had recently encountered it elsewhere—for the last time he had seen her wrist, he had still been learning to speak.

"No, but I hate it!" His declaration was filled with disgust, and Gúthwyn fought the urge to hide her wrist once more. "What is it? Why do you have it there?"

"It is the Eye of Sauron," she explained as calmly as she could. "It is the symbol he and his servants used. I have it because after I was a slave in Isengard, I was taken to Mordor and forced to be a slave there as well."

Several birds could have flown through Elfwine's mouth as he gaped at her; such was his horror that he likely would not have noticed. "B-But that is where the Dark Lord was," he at last spluttered. "In his tower! And the mountain that was on fire! You had to live there?"

"No, not in the tower," Gúthwyn explained. "There were other humans, like me, who did not serve him willingly. We were kept close to the Black Gates, where your father and King Elessar fought—"

"And Grandfather."

"And your grandfather, yes. The tower and the mountain were both far away. "I only—" She stopped, having been about to say, _I only visited the tower once._ But she was not going to describe Barad-dûr to a nine-year-old.

Elfwine had so many questions that he scarcely notice her pause. "Was it worse than Isengard? Papa said some of his men were so frightened that they wanted to run away, so King Elessar said they could fight somewhere else. Did you see the Dark Lord? Was he really a giant eye?"

Gúthwyn held up her hand to stem the torrent. "Yes, that was the form the Dark Lord took. And yes, Mordor was far worse than Isengard. But I am sorry, little one," she said, anticipating another round of questions. "I do not wish to speak of my time there. Not only was it the worst three years of my life, but I will not pollute your mind with such horrors."

"But—"

"Elfwine, this is not a debate," she said, kindly yet firmly. "You are far too young to comprehend what I endured there, and while I may tell you some of it when you are older, you will have to understand that the rest is too painful for me to discuss. You must let me keep my secrets."

Somehow, her words convinced him; he did not argue, as she had expected, nor was he frustrated, as she had feared. Yet he did have another question: "Do you have a lot of secrets?"

She could tell from his expression that he already knew the answer, and she was filled with shame as she nodded. "I am sorry, little one. It does not mean that I love you any less."

"Does Leggy know?" Elfwine pressed.

She hesitated, which was not lost on her nephew—she just hoped he had not also noticed the guilt writhing in her stomach. "Legolas knows that I was in Isengard and Mordor," she finally said. "And he also knows that there are some things I am not ready to tell him yet."

"Have you told _anyone_?"

"Just your father," Gúthwyn admitted. Even if Elfwine tried to seek information from that quarter, Éomer would know better than to reveal anything to him.

The wrinkles upon Elfwine's forehead deepened. "How come you told Papa but not Leggy?"

Were he not a prince, Gúthwyn thought, her nephew ought to have been a councilor, for all the cracks he was spotting in her story. "I told him a long time ago, when I first returned from Mordor. But it does no good to dwell on memories such as those, and I have done my best to forget as much of it as possible."

Elfwine went quiet, considering this. She watched him, desperate to know what he was thinking—having confessed to being both a slave and a liar, was she no longer his beloved aunt? Her throat had run dry, and she wondered if she would not prefer ignorance after all.

But all he said was, "How did you come back from Mordor? Did you escape?"

Gúthwyn opened her mouth—what she would have said, whether an outright lie or a half-truth, she did not know—but then, realizing that Elfwine would only follow up with another question and then another, until all her powers of deflection were thoroughly exhausted, she changed her mind. "I am afraid that is a story for another day. Already you have learned a great deal about me that you did not know before. Does this bother you?"

Her stomach dropped when Elfwine nodded.

"What about it bothers you?"

Elfwine took a long time to respond; his eyes kept darting to the mark on her wrist.

"I know it is unpleasant to look at," Gúthwyn said, "but the Enemy is gone now, and his symbol has no more power."

Her feeble effort barely registered. "I do not like that bad things keep happening to you," Elfwine said, frowning. "And I do not like that Onyveth called you a slave, because you are not one anymore."

"Bad things happen to everyone."

"But more bad things happen to _you_ ," Elfwine pointed out.

Gúthwyn did not have an answer for that; instead, she addressed his second concern. "Onyveth was only repeating what her father told her. I am glad that you defended me, but I think you should apologize to her."

"But—"

"It is not your fault, for you did not know, and I alone am to blame for not telling you sooner. But sometimes we act on the wrong information, even with the right intentions, and then we have to make amends for our mistakes. How would you feel if you were Onyveth, and someone falsely accused you of being a liar?"

"I would be mad," Elfwine admitted after a pause.

"I would be, too." Gúthwyn waited, hoping he would come to it on his own.

"So I should say sorry," he said glumly, looking up for Gúthwyn's approval.

She nodded. "It is the right thing to do. But first, I will apologize to you for putting you in such a position. I did not realize Lebryn had told Onyveth about Isengard, else I would have told you as well."

This mollified Elfwine, and he made only a small show of reluctance when she suggested that they visit Lebryn and Onyveth. After gathering up their things, they returned to the city, parting ways with Ceorl and Eanwulf before striking the road that would bring them to Onyveth's home.

Lebryn opened the door, his customary scowl deepening when he saw who it was. "She is not here," he said, blocking the entrance.

Gúthwyn raised her eyebrows at the pair of small, mud-stained boots that were drying out on the floor just behind him. "Elfwine has come to apologize for what happened today. And I would like to speak with you."

Lebryn gave her a long, sour look, but finally he relented and made a sardonic gesture for them to come inside. "Onyveth," he called to a closed door at the far end of the room. "You have a visitor."

"I thought you said she was not here," Elfwine remarked, frowning.

"I lied," Lebryn said without the slightest trace of remorse.

When Onyveth emerged, Gúthwyn noticed that her eyes were red, but they still flashed when they saw Elfwine. "I don't want to talk to _you_ ," she announced.

"The prince has come to apologize," Lebryn said, with only a slightly sardonic emphasis on the word "prince" as he caught her by the shoulder.

At an encouraging nod from Gúthwyn, Elfwine took a deep breath. "I am sorry I called you a liar," he said in a formal tone that might have been an attempt to emulate his father during a council session. "It was wrong and I should not have yelled at you. Auntie Gúthwyn told me that everything you said was true."

Onyveth continued to glare at him for several seconds; judging by Elfwine's fidgeting, it must have felt far longer than that.

"Fine," she said at last, her frown relenting just a fraction.

There was a pause.

"Do you want to play tag?" Elfwine offered.

"Fine." This answer was given more quickly, and less grudgingly, but there was no mistaking the forcefulness with which Onyveth lunged forward and tagged Elfwine on the shoulder. Elfwine had to step back to absorb the push, but his scowl was quickly replaced by an expression of fierce determination, and within seconds he had sprinted outside after her.

That left Gúthwyn with Lebryn, who gave her a sharp look. "You should have told him. He would have heard it from someone else if not Onyveth."

"I did not think he was old enough," Gúthwyn said tightly.

Lebryn's eyes darkened. "And I suppose you know so much more about parenting than I do."

Although Gúthwyn was used to Lebryn's caustic remarks, this one made her flinch. "That is not what I—"

"Do you also think he does not have ears? People still gossip about you, you know. I have heard some _very_ interesting theories about what happened between you and that swan prince in the stables—"

"Enough!"

Whether Lebryn saw that her fists were clenched, or if he had heard her sharp intake of breath, he relented, and in a quieter voice he said, "Too many people know or suspect for you to hide it from him. And he asks more questions than Onyveth, which is damn near impossible. Not a good combination for you."

 _What is rape?_

"I already had to tell him about Isengard and Mordor today, thanks to you," she pointed out, trying not to cringe.

"I am not going to hide my past from my daughter," Lebryn growled. "I have nothing to be ashamed of."

"But you did not have to bring my past into it. You could have told her without mentioning me. And Cobryn."

Lebryn opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. After a few seconds, he replied with affected indifference, "I suppose you are right. Though Elfwine still would have heard about it eventually."

It was as close to an apology as she was going to get—therefore she took no small amount of satisfaction in staring at him coolly until she saw a shadow of discomfort in his eyes. "What exactly did you tell her about us?"

"Us?" Lebryn echoed, clearly thinking she meant the two of them.

"Cobryn and I. It is none of my concern what you tell her about yourself."

"I just said that you were there. And that when your uncle came to Isengard, he allowed us to leave with him. Onyveth asked what you were doing there and I told her you had been taken from your home, just like me."

"And that is it?"

"Yes," he growled.

"You said nothing about the Wargs, and what happened to me after? What about Feride?" she pressed.

Lebryn stiffened at the mention of Feride. "I am not a complete idiot."

Gúthwyn briefly considered—then thought better of—asking whether he had told Onyveth about her namesake. Instead she nodded and replied, "Then I will thank you for your continued restraint. I do not want to hear my nephew repeating anything else he has learned from your daughter."

Lebryn continued to glower. She decided to assume that he would respect her wishes, and she turned towards the door, but before she could leave his voice rang out behind her. "Running from your past will not make it go away."

"Unlike you," she answered without looking back, "I have much to be ashamed of."

"And you think hiding it will help? What are you going to tell that Elf of yours once he starts asking questions?"

Gúthwyn spun around to see Lebryn's eyes gleaming with triumph.

"My apologies, are we also pretending Prince Legolas has not been living in Edoras for the past two months? Were all those picnics mere figments of my imagination?"

"He is—He is helping Elfwine—"

Lebryn snorted. "If you actually think I would believe that, you are far less intelligent than I had given you credit for."

Since she could not reasonably continue to maintain her innocence, Gúthwyn sighed and said, "Could you please keep this to yourself, then? Hammel and Haiweth do not know yet, and I want to tell them in person."

"Well, you better tell them soon."

"Lebryn! I am serious. Please—"

"All right, all right." Lebryn's scowl curled into a grin that was even less reassuring. "So you wound up with a prince after all, eh?"

"Yes, I suppose—"

"Does this mean I need to call you princess? My lady? Your highness?" He was mostly teasing, but she caught glimpses of something hard beneath the surface, an echo of his longstanding distaste for authority figures. He only respected Éomer, she knew, because he had seen him on the battlefield.

On another day, she might have found it amusing, but after fielding Elfwine's questions about Isengard and Mordor, she did not have the energy to deal with Lebryn's mercurial moods. "Call me whatever you want."

"Well, princess"—she inwardly groaned, somehow having known exactly which title he would choose to throw in her face—"your nephew is a much better liar than you are."

"What do you mean?"

"I asked him about Prince Legolas a few days ago," Lebryn said shamelessly, "and that boy looked me straight in the eye and said that 'Leggy' was teaching him archery."

As relieved as Gúthwyn was that Elfwine had been able to keep her secret, she could not help but wonder where he had acquired this skill, lying to adults. Had he ever done this to her, and she had not realized? She liked to think she knew him too well, but he was his mother's son…

Distracted, she mumbled something like "I see" and turned again to the door.

"Gúthwyn."

She glanced back at Lebryn, who seemed to be wrestling with several things he wanted to say. One of them might even have been "Congratulations," or perhaps merely, "So how pointed are those ears, really?"

In the end, he settled for nodding at her, and she nodded back and left to find Elfwine.

* * *

 **Response to Guest:** Wow! I hope you're not too tired! And yes, I've always struggled to balance character development with simply moving the story along... and I'm not too great at the latter. There's certainly room for improvement!

Haldor is... well, he's an enigma, and that's all I'll say for now.

 **Response to RP911:** Thank you so much for your review! You're right about Gúthwyn's swordfighting prowess - not only was she a lot younger during the War, but she had a lot more driving her than she does now. She'll have to find a new source of motivation. :)

I agree that her sparring with Legolas at this time would be disastrous. You brought up so many good points about what would happen if she lost herself in the fight, and what it would mean to her if he won. Luckily, Legolas is wise enough to know when not to push, even if the outcome isn't what he had hoped for, but I think it will be difficult for him when Tauriel joins their household and Gúthwyn is far more willing to fight her.

Lebryn and Onyveth are becoming one of my favorite parent-child duos! Although sometimes I feel bad that I've done basically nothing with Onyveth's mother... I keep reminding myself to incorporate her into the story somehow, but it just never seems to happen, haha. And yes, Gúthwyn is pretty terrible at keeping secrets.

Eryn Lasgalen is a lot further down the road, haha, but needless to say I'm very grateful to Peter Jackson and co. for giving me some glimpses into the palace life there. I think I'm going to have fun with all those windy passages that don't have any safety rails - probably not the most pleasant of walks for visiting mortals!


	15. The Province of Men

**Chapter Fifteen**

On the first of June, a bright, clear morning with a promising breeze from the nearby mountains, Lebryn brought Onyveth to the boys' sword-fighting class.

Gúthwyn and Legolas were at the training grounds when this incident occurred, having accompanied Elfwine and agreed, at his request, to watch for a few minutes. The class was about to begin—Éothain had arrived and was counting the students, his eyes squinting against the sun. The scene was pure chaos, with boys shouting at one another and staging mock fights with their wooden swords, but Elfwine easily stood out amidst his golden-haired peers. Every now and then, he glanced over to make sure Gúthwyn and Legolas were still there, and they smiled and discreetly waved.

Éothain was not the class's usual instructor—Elfhelm and Gamling had taken over the job after Cobryn's departure, and normally they alternated classes as needed to accommodate their duties. Today, however, neither of them were available, as Gamling had gone with Lothíriel to Dol Amroth and Elfhelm was at Aldburg overseeing repairs to the fort.

Gúthwyn had once asked Cobryn if he missed teaching, and if he had considered requesting his old position back, but he had given her a wry smile and answered, "I think Éomer would prefer his heir to be trained by two of the highest-ranking men in his army, no?"

Still, Gúthwyn thought Cobryn would have been better for the task than Éothain, who was a capable swordsman yet did not seem to have a particular gift for managing children. If a student struggled or misbehaved, his patience quickly wore thin; he lacked Cobryn's talent at coming up with an explanation or a training tip that would resonate with the slow learner; and he did not possess the natural authority that kept even the rowdiest of boys under control.

Just before Éothain started the class, Legolas nudged Gúthwyn and tilted his head. She glanced over and saw Lebryn slip into view, a determined-looking Onyveth in tow. When she realized that the girl was carrying a wooden sword, she shot a wide-eyed glance at Lebryn, but he merely bent down to whisper something in Onyveth's ear and then ushered her forward. She scuttled to the back of the group, just a couple of rows behind an unknowing Elfwine.

It was the work of a moment, and no one besides Legolas and Gúthwyn seemed to have noticed. Lebryn straightened and stepped back into the group of watching parents, casually surveying the scene to make sure his daughter's act of rebellion had gone unobserved. When he caught Gúthwyn's eye, he winked and pressed a finger to his lips.

"I know we were only planning to stay for a little while," Gúthwyn muttered to Legolas, "but I would like to watch this unfold."

Legolas seemed doubtful. "Surely the instructor will realize he has an extra student?"

Incredibly, however, Éothain had not detected the presence of an interloper, much less a girl. It had always been an informal class, with only about half of the boys attending consistently; since Onyveth was still roughly the same size as her peers, Gúthwyn supposed she appeared to Éothain as just another scrawny-limbed pupil.

The deception lasted through the first set of drills, which did not require the boys to pair up. Instead, Éothain directed them to spread out evenly (this appeared to present somewhat of a challenge) and repeat the strikes he showed them. Onyveth performed each one with a ferocious intensity, and Gúthwyn was glad to see her holding her own—although the real test would come when she had an opponent.

When she looked over at Lebryn, he was doing his best to conceal a proud grin.

After ten minutes, Éothain called for the boys to find partners. Quick as a hare, Onyveth darted forward and tapped Elfwine on the shoulder. Elfwine's mouth dropped open when he saw her, yet the surprise and delight on his face soon gave way to something more conspiratorial as they engaged in a short, whispered conversation. With a glance over his shoulder at Éothain, Elfwine motioned for Onyveth to stand opposite him, so that they would blend in with the rest of the boys squaring off against each other.

Gúthwyn was shaking with silent laughter; she pressed her hand to her mouth and turned to Legolas, who was also watching the proceedings with amusement. "This seems like something you would have done at her age," Legolas murmured.

"I wish I had thought of it."

By now, some of the parents had realized what was happening; Gúthwyn saw them pointing at Onyveth and casting reproving glances at Lebryn. Yet they seemed reluctant to cause a scene by protesting, and their frowns deepened in silence.

Unaware of the disturbances rippling around him, Éothain called out drills for the students to perform, simple block-and-strike maneuvers that had already been covered in previous lessons. For someone attending their first class, Onyveth picked up the steps with remarkable speed, and Gúthwyn decided she would not have put it past Lebryn to have scouted out the drills beforehand.

Elfwine and Onyveth traded blows back and forth. Having had all the advantages of formal instruction, Elfwine's movements were more precise, his footwork noticeably neater. Yet there was no doubt that Onyveth had the raw talent to match his, and judging by the furrow of concentration in Elfwine's brow, the young prince had correctly perceived that his opponent was not to be underestimated.

Éothain was making his way down the lines, pausing here and there to give praise or corrections, and Gúthwyn held her breath as he neared Elfwine and Onyveth. How long could the ruse possibly hold? A red-faced boy nearly double Onyveth's size was glowering at her, and a couple of boys nearby were stifling snickers.

At last, Éothain came up from behind Onyveth. "Keep him guessing until the last second," he advised Elfwine. "Your body will tell him what to look for if you are not careful."

With half a glance at Onyveth, he said, "Good work, lad."

The two children's eyes lit up with barely restrained glee before the red-faced boy shouted, "Sir, she is not allowed to be in this class!"

"Shut _up_ , Wymare!" Onyveth hissed, but it was too late. Éothain turned around, glancing quizzically at Wymare, and then did a double take as his gaze passed over Onyveth.

"Sir, this is the _boys'_ class," Wymare pressed his point.

"You're just jealous because you're too slow to catch me in tag," Onyveth said hotly.

"That will do, Wymare," Éothain said before the boy could retaliate. "Onyveth, is it? Lebryn's daughter?"

"Yes," Onyveth answered sullenly.

"Well, Onyveth, you have had your joke." Éothain's words were polite, yet they contained an unmistakable tone of finality. "Now run along so your friends can focus on their lesson."

Onyveth ground her feet into the dirt, as if daring him to try and remove her. "I want to be in this class, too."

"I can practice with her," Elfwine offered, and Gúthwyn discovered that it was, in fact, possible to love him even more than she already did. "She is very fast."

A muscle in Éothain's jaw twitched. Gúthwyn saw him glance around at the other students, half of whom had stopped what they were doing to watch, and then at their parents. "That is generous of you, Prince Elfwine, but unfortunately your friend cannot be here. Onyveth, I am sure your parents are wondering where you—"

"I know exactly where she is," Lebryn said loudly, stepping forward so that Éothain had a clear view of him. With a hint of malice in his voice, he added, "But I thank you for your concern."

Éothain gritted his teeth. "You know she is not supposed to be here, Lebryn. Now take her home and—"

"Not supposed to be here?" Lebryn echoed in mock surprise. "And why is that? This is a sword-fighting class, is it not? She is here to learn how to fight with a sword, just like everyone else."

"She is not like everyone else," Éothain ground out.

Lebryn's eyes glittered dangerously. "Not like everyone else? I am not sure I follow."

"You know damn well what I—" Éothain checked himself with another glance at their audience. Nearly all of the students had abandoned their drills at this point. "Back to work!" he barked, making them jump and resume their stances. The resurgence of activity made it impossible for Gúthwyn to hear what Éothain said next, but it sounded like he was telling Onyveth to come with him to speak to her father.

"Keep practicing, Onyveth," Lebryn ordered, his voice ringing loud and clear.

Éothain's features contorted; had Onyveth been a boy, Gúthwyn suspected he would have forcibly removed her from the class. Unable to bring himself to do so now, he stalked over to Lebryn, his shoulders stiff with anger.

"Let us move closer," Gúthwyn whispered to Legolas—she did not want to miss a word of the impending confrontation.

Grinning, Legolas followed her to a spot where they could see and hear better. Lebryn noticed their approach, but Éothain, his back to them, remained unaware; he was practically stepping on Lebryn's toes, their noses inches apart in his effort to avoid causing a scene. "You _know_ that girls are not allowed in this class," he hissed at Lebryn just as Gúthwyn and Legolas came within earshot. "Those are the rules, and do not make the mistake of thinking you are above them."

"Which rules?" Lebryn shot back, taking great care to enunciate so that everyone in the vicinity could hear. "Under whose orders are girls not allowed to be in this class? Has the king issued a decree that I was not aware of?"

"One does not need a decree to know that girls do not belong here!"

Lebryn nodded at Gúthwyn. "Perhaps you should tell that to Lady Gúthwyn, then."

Éothain spun around; he at least had the decency to look slightly discomfited. "Lady Gúthwyn," he murmured with a stiff nod. "I did not know you were here."

She smiled, doing her best to restrain her amusement. "Good morning, Éothain. I was just here to watch Elfwine and Onyveth. They are doing quite well."

Éothain shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "My lady, I am sure you can understand why it would be inadvisable to—"

He was interrupted by Lebryn's incredulous snort of laughter. "Tell me you are not trying to appeal to her of all people. How many times has she defeated you on this very ground?"

Éothain's skin turned an interesting shade of purple, and he muttered something that Gúthwyn did not catch.

"No one would dare to use his full strength against the king's sister?" Lebryn guffawed. "A convenient excuse, that. As if using your full strength would change the outcome."

"Actually, I seem to recall that I managed to defeat several of my brother's warriors, yourself among them, during a tournament in which everyone thought I was a man," Gúthwyn said mildly.

Before Éothain could splutter a response, Lebryn added, "Speaking of disguising oneself as a man, tell me, Éothain, when was the last time you killed a Nazgûl?"

It took Éothain several deep breaths to answer; every parent in the vicinity was watching him, some tittering at his predicament. "No one is denying the accomplishments of Lady Gúthwyn and Princess Éowyn," he began carefully, "but they are the exception rather than the rule. Onyveth may be able to keep up with the boys now, but in a few years they will all surpass her in size, strength, and speed."

"Yes, I can see how that has been a problem for Lady Gúthwyn," Lebryn remarked.

"As I said, Lady Gúthwyn is the exception—"

"Why? Because she has had training? The kind I am trying to provide for my daughter?"

"This is ridiculous," Éothain complained. "Everyone knows that the average woman is incapable of holding her own in a true fight against a man. And what happens when Onyveth outgrows this class, hm? Is she going to join an _éored_? Spend her days riding with men, sleeping on the ground with them?"

From the looks of it, Lebryn had no qualms with Onyveth doing precisely that, but he was clever enough to avoid taking Éothain's bait. "She is not here to join an _éored_ ," he answered with forced calm. "She is here to join a children's class. I do not see what harm there is in her training with her peers."

"Then perhaps you should think again." Leaning closer, Éothain dropped his voice and said something that was audible only to Lebryn. Gúthwyn strained to hear him, catching no more than a whisper. If only Legolas understood Rohirric!

Whatever Éothain had said, it clearly struck a nerve. Lebryn's features darkened like a sudden storm, and his hands clenched into fists, drawing anticipatory murmurs from the crowd. For the second time, the entire lesson had ground to a halt: wooden swords drooped in slackened grips, and for once all the students were paying attention to their instructor. Elfwine and Onyveth stood together, their eyes wide with astonishment.

To Gúthwyn's relief, Lebryn refrained from lunging at Éothain, but he could not have kept his voice down if he had tried. "The battlefield is full of distractions," he spat, "and these boys will have to learn that sooner or later if they are to be worthy of their armor. But right now, Éothain, it is your attempts to throw my daughter out of this class that are distracting your students, not her."

Gúthwyn looked upon Lebryn with newfound respect. She would never have thought to make such an argument; it was something she would have expected from Cobryn. Remembering the boy Lebryn had once been, and his initial reluctance as a parent, she felt a surge of pride for the man now fighting for his daughter.

But Éothain refused to budge. "She is not welcome in this class, and that is final. Even if I wanted her here, which I certainly do not, the king would never permit it—for if one girl is allowed, then others will want to follow. And then what?"

At the mention of Éomer, Gúthwyn had an idea. "I am sure my brother would at least be willing to hear both sides of this debate," she said, raising her voice to drown out Lebryn's reply to Éothain. "Since he is currently meeting with his advisors, however, you will have to wait until he is done—so Onyveth might as well finish this class in the meantime."

Éothain started to protest, and she shot him a quelling smile. "You are certain that she will not be able to keep up, are you not? If she struggles during this lesson, then you will have another argument in your favor."

Lebryn could barely contain his smirk. "I think that is an excellent idea."

"My lady," Éothain tried again, "the offer is appreciated, but I am the one responsible for this class—"

"Of course," Gúthwyn said, "so I imagine you would like to return to the lesson as quickly as possible. I am afraid that if we cannot reach some sort of agreement now, Lebryn will continue arguing with you, and that will waste even more of your students' time." She cast a pointed look around them; he could see as well as she did the children who were hanging eagerly onto their every word.

Éothain was forced to weigh his options. On the one hand, his authority over the class was being challenged; on the other, she was the king's sister and could not be so easily dismissed.

With a final glare at Lebryn, he said, "I want his word that he will abide by the king's decision, though it will not be to his liking. And when the king puts a stop to this foolishness, neither he nor his daughter will return to my class again."

Gúthwyn looked at Lebryn. "Does he have your word?" Lebryn gave a curt nod, and she turned back to Éothain. "Then it is settled. Onyveth will finish today's lesson, and it is up to Éomer whether or not she stays."

The two men agreed—Lebryn's eyes gleaming, Éothain terse and unhappy. "If you will excuse me, my lady," he said stiffly, "I should like to restore order to this class."

As he stalked off through the lines of children, Lebryn turned towards Gúthwyn with a grin, but she caught his arm before he could say anything. "Tell Onyveth that she needs to fight fair. No tricks."

Lebryn's expression soured, and he started to pull away from her. She yanked him back. "I am serious. It does not matter whether there is honor in a real fight—Éothain will be looking for any excuse to tell Éomer that Onyveth does not belong in this class. And if she breaks the rules, he will have a much stronger case. Tell her now, before the drills start again!"

For a moment, Lebryn hesitated; then, coming to a decision, he raised his hand and beckoned Onyveth over.

"And tell her not to talk back to Éothain. Or get into a fight with one of the boys," Gúthwyn was unable to resist advising as Onyveth trotted towards them.

"Are you done yet, princess?" Lebryn muttered, and she gave him a pointed look before leaving him to it.

"What exactly just happened?" Legolas asked when she rejoined him.

As she explained the situation, his eyebrows rose. "Do you think Éomer will allow her in the class?"

"I am not sure," Gúthwyn admitted, biting her lip. She loved her brother, but sometimes he harbored foolish notions about women. "I hope he will at least hear Lebryn out—otherwise I may have to remind him of all the times I have defeated him at sparring."

"That might not be the wisest course of action if you wish him to be accommodating," Legolas suggested gently.

She made a face, knowing he was right, and watched as the whispered conference between Lebryn and Onyveth came to an end. With a look of fierce concentration, Onyveth returned to the class, slipping back into line just as Éothain turned around.

"Am I correct in guessing that you would like to stay for the rest of the lesson?" Legolas asked, the corners of his mouth quirking.

Gúthwyn did indeed, and once he had assured her that he did not mind, she turned all her attention back to Onyveth. She had half-expected Éothain to try to sabotage Onyveth by singling her out or assigning her some impossibly difficult drill, but, perhaps deterred by the presence of the king's sister, Éothain instead chose to carry out the class as if Onyveth did not exist. He addressed the students as "boys," and whenever he walked around he completely ignored her, giving advice to Elfwine without so much as a look in her direction.

Elfwine, Gúthwyn was glad to see, found Éothain's behavior very puzzling. During one of their exchanges, he gestured towards Onyveth, attempting to include her in the conversation, but Éothain brushed him off and moved onto another pair. Despite the indifference of her instructor, however, Onyveth persevered, making few mistakes and performing the drills with far more ease than half of the boys around her. She also thwarted Wymare's attempt to trip her, noticing his outstretched leg just in time and leaping over it.

By the end of the hour, Éothain's mouth was pulled taut in a thin line, and Lebryn was no longer troubling to conceal his smirk.

"I noticed you did not have many corrections for my daughter," Lebryn called out as the class dispersed, Elfwine and Onyveth lingering to watch the adults argue. "Shall I take it you are satisfied with her skills?"

"As far as I am concerned, she has no place in my class," Éothain answered coldly. "And since no doubt the king will see things my way, I see no reason to teach her anything."

"That is for my brother to decide," Gúthwyn cut in; her opinion of Éothain was lowering with each slight to Onyveth. For him to stand there, insisting that these lessons were unsuitable for girls, in front of a woman who had beaten him numerous times on the training grounds… It was galling, and if she had been in any better shape, she would have challenged him to a match then and there. With some difficulty, she mastered the urge.

"Elfwine, perhaps you and Onyveth can practice some more while we settle this matter," she suggested.

Needless to say, neither Elfwine nor Onyveth were happy to be excluded from the proceedings, and their protests only subsided with a pleading look from Gúthwyn and a barked command from Lebryn. They took up their swords again with considerably less enthusiasm than they had shown in class, grumbling as they were left behind.

Éothain and Lebryn did not speak to each other on the way to the Golden Hall; luckily, when they arrived, Éomer's advisors were filing out of the council room, and Éomer himself emerged a moment later. When Gúthwyn explained that there was a dispute between Lebryn and Éothain, he raised his eyebrows, sighed, and motioned for them to stand before the dais.

"And what is this about?" he asked once he was seated on the throne. He glanced first at Gúthwyn, then at Legolas, who had found a table from which to observe.

Doing her best to sound unbiased, Gúthwyn said, "Lebryn brought Onyveth to Éothain's sword-fighting class, the one Elfwine is in. Éothain did not want her to participate. They had an argument and finally I suggested that they appeal to you, and meanwhile Onyveth could finish today's class."

Éomer did not look particularly pleased to hear this, which Gúthwyn feared was not a bad omen for Lebryn. Éothain must have had similar thoughts, for he jumped in: "My lord, with all due respect to Lebryn, the girl caused nothing but chaos in my class. I have boys to train into men, and I cannot do that if they are going to be distracted by girls."

"The only reason she 'caused chaos' was because _you_ tried to kick her out," Lebryn immediately retorted. "She was following the drills just like everyone else. And if your boys cannot handle being 'distracted,' they will make sorry men indeed when you drop them into a battle and expect them to pay attention to their commander amidst real chaos."

Éomer held up his hand, and the two men reluctantly ceased their quarreling. "Let me make sure I am understanding this. Lebryn, you wish your daughter to join this class? On a permanent basis?"

"Yes. My lord." Lebryn remembered the proper form of address at the last instant.

"For what purpose?"

Lebryn was plainly taken aback—neither he nor Gúthwyn had expected the question. Recovering, he answered, "So she can learn how to fight."

"According to my son, you have been teaching her on your own already," Éomer said. "Is there a reason why this arrangement cannot continue?"

"She needs new sparring partners. She already knows most of my tricks."

Gúthwyn smiled, although Éomer did not. "If that is all, then why not ask my sister? Or someone like Cobryn? I am sure they would be willing to help."

"Well," Lebryn said after a pause, and Gúthwyn received the impression that he was choosing his words carefully, "suppose Lady Gúthwyn decides to return to Ithilien. I may not be able to count on her or Cobryn."

Now it was Éomer's turn to be caught off-guard, though only the slightest ripple of discomfort passed through his expression. He glanced once at Gúthwyn, who herself was determinedly not looking at Legolas, and chose to abandon that line of query. "Then I will ask you again. What is the purpose of this exercise?"

As he spoke, the doors to the hall opened, and Gúthwyn was not surprised in the least to see Elfwine and Onyveth through them. Onyveth attempted to march right up to her father, yet Elfwine pulled her over to a pillar, where they did a rather poor job of concealing themselves.

Éomer's eyes narrowed, but Lebryn did not turn around, so bent was he on defending his daughter. "So she can learn how to fight," he repeated.

Éomer shook his head. "Suppose she is given leave to attend Éothain's class. What then? What happens when the class is over and her peers join an _éored_? Are you intending for your daughter to ride with them?" Something stirred in Lebryn's face, and he did not hide it quickly enough. "Well, if that is your aim, then allow me to disabuse you of that notion. An _éored_ is no place for a woman. All you would be doing is setting her up for disappointment."

"An _éored_ is no place for a woman? Just like a battlefield, then? My lord?" Lebryn cast a pointed glance at Gúthwyn.

Éomer's reply was swift and sharp. "Do not think to bolster your suit by drawing my sisters into this. Neither of them had permission to ride off to war, and both are lucky they survived."

Gúthwyn's mouth dropped open—Éomer was making it sound as if she and Éowyn had just happened to have good fortune, never mind their own prowess at arms. "We were no more lucky than all the other men who survived," she interjected. "And _luck_ did not kill the Witch-king of Angmar, in case you have forgotten."

She could tell from Éomer's expression that her interruption was not welcome. "Few women have Éowyn's courage, and fewer still her talent."

"Perhaps more would, if someone would train them!"

"Not many, I think," Éomer said coolly.

"Then I suppose we should stop training men as well, since I doubt many of _them_ could match Éowyn in either courage or talent!" Gúthwyn cried.

"'Many' are not my concern," Lebryn reminded them. "My daughter is but one."

"And one will become many if that precedent is set," Éomer said.

"Is that such a bad thing?" Gúthwyn demanded. "Long ago, shieldmaidens fought for the king."

"They fought as a last resort in defense of their homes," Éomer corrected her. "There are many legends about our past, and not all of them are true."

"Then let me remind you of something that happened more recently," Gúthwyn snapped. "Our sister fought for the king, when all of his _men_ abandoned him in their fear. Our sister slew the enemy that tried to defile him. Our sister is the only reason his body was not ravaged, and you sit there and tell me with a straight face that women should not be allowed the same chances as men?"

Éomer gave her a long, hard stare, but she met his gaze without blinking, and he was the first one to turn away. She saw him glance at Elfwine, who was watching them with growing alarm.

 _You know I am right,_ she thought savagely.

"My sister has made a persuasive argument on your behalf," Éomer told Lebryn, "but she is wrong. War is the province of men, and a few exceptions do not change the rule."

Gúthwyn's mouth dropped open.

"Therefore," Éomer continued, "if your daughter is to participate in this class, it is with the understanding that there will be no spot for her in any _éored_ of this realm. When her peers ride out on patrol, or to battle, she will stay behind and await their return. If she attempts to disguise herself and follow them, she will be punished harshly, as will you and anyone who abetted her foolishness. Have I made myself clear?"

It was hard to say who was more stunned: Gúthwyn, Lebryn, or Éothain.

"M-My lord," the latter stammered, "are you suggesting that the girl be _allowed_ into this class?"

Éomer held up a hand; all his attention was focused on Lebryn, who had the look of someone who had just been told they could eat a honey cake, but only if they swallowed a live fish first. "Have I made myself clear?" he repeated.

Lebryn knew better than to make his king ask a third time, and with great reluctance he swallowed the fish. "Yes, my lord."

Éothain looked just as unhappy. "But—"

"Éothain." The man was silenced. "It would not be right of me to allow my sisters the use of the training grounds and then deny this privilege to other women. If Lebryn's daughter wishes to train there when she is older, so be it. She will go no further. Until then, she requires supervision."

"Lebryn can teach her on his own," Éothain insisted stubbornly. "There is no reason for her to join my class."

Éomer rubbed at his temples. "Consider it your chance to instill the sense of honor in her that you have often lamented to be lacking in her father."

"But—"

"Éothain, I will have no shortage of arguments with my sister and my son if I ban her from your class, and frankly I have already spent enough time dealing with this. Lebryn, I am holding you responsible for your daughter's conduct during this time. If she gives Éothain any trouble, she is done. If she causes any problems with the boys, she is done."

"What if the boys cause problems with her?" Lebryn asked boldly.

Gúthwyn held her breath—it was a perfectly reasonable question, but Éomer was clearly not in the best of moods.

In a tone that extended no invitation for further discussion, Éomer answered, "I will count on Éothain to ensure that _all_ are behaving in his class."

Neither Éothain nor Lebryn had any choice but to agree, each of them looking resentfully at the other. When they were dismissed, Éothain strode out of the hall without a word to anyone; Lebryn hung back just long enough to cast a muttered "thanks" at Gúthwyn before he collected Onyveth and departed.

Once the visitors were gone, and the creaking of the doors had lapsed into the crackling of the hearth, Éomer turned to Gúthwyn. "Are you satisfied?"

Gúthwyn nodded, although his tone was a little too combative for her liking. "Is something wrong?"

"You mean, apart from dealing with this?"

"I was only asking," she said, stiffening. "My apologies for inconveniencing you."

She was turning back to Legolas when she heard him sigh behind her. "No, I am sorry. You caught me at a bad time."

"Did something happen at your meeting?"

Éomer glanced at Elfwine, who was hurrying over to them. "Only a dozen or so quarrelsome merchants," he grumbled quietly. "I do not know where Lothíriel found these men, but I would happily cut all ties with them in an instant."

 _But you need them for the fair,_ Gúthwyn thought. _Just like you need your wife, although you will never admit it._

"Papa! Can Onyveth really stay in the class? Even though Éothain does not want her to?"

Leaving Éomer to combat Elfwine's excitement, Gúthwyn returned to Legolas and filled him in on all that had transpired.

"I know mortal women do not usually fight in human armies," Legolas remarked, "but I am surprised that mortal men are so resistant to the mere suggestion."

"And Éomer of all people should know better! 'War is the province of men'—what an absurd thing to say! As if Éowyn had never been at the Pelennor Fields!"

"Perhaps it is the memory of that battle that influences him," Legolas said gently. "He was distraught when he found Éowyn and thought her lost—and he experienced that terror anew when you were discovered to be missing. I imagine it was worse than any fear he had faced before."

Legolas did have a point… but it still rankled. "I am always worried when he rides off to war," she complained. "Yet I would never tell him to stay home and wait for others to return!"

Legolas smiled. "I did not say it is logical. Yet nor is it malevolent."

Not malevolent, perhaps, but still patronizing. _Elven women go to war,_ she thought, _and somehow everyone manages._

At least when she went to the colony, she would no longer be the only woman at the training grounds. She shared this cheerful thought with Legolas, who grinned. "Why do I have a feeling that you and Tauriel are about to become very close?"

"Why do I have a feeling that you chose her so I would have a friend?" Gúthwyn could not resist asking.

"I just want you to be happy at the colony," Legolas murmured. He had not even glanced around at the servants; his blue eyes were locked on hers, as if she were the only person in all of Middle-earth.

Her stomach performed an odd swooping motion, like a bird taking flight.

"I will be happy," she said; and even though she did not know if this would be entirely true, she wanted it to be, which was in that moment more important than the truth.

* * *

 **Response to Kairi Senpai:** It would be hard for me to think of a character I've fleshed out more than Gúthwyn, but Cobryn and Elfwine are probably next in line. I've also been thinking about Haiweth a lot lately!

Glad to hear someone else likes playing with the Dol Amrothians, haha.

 **Response to Maria:** Aw, thank you! I wish I would update more often, too...

 **Response to RP911:** My heart melted a little at that line, too, haha. Elfwine's just so much fun to write! Although he hasn't been having an easy time of it lately. All children eventually realize that their parents aren't infallible, of course, but he's had to learn sooner than most. Even with Gúthwyn, now he's finding out that she's lied to him, too. It's a lot for him to think about, and he has a very active mind!

Thranduil would definitely not be pleased to discover that particular aspect of Gúthwyn's past - I agree that Legolas will be very careful to avoid disclosing that information!

It's funny you should mention that about Onyveth... :)


	16. Lothiriel's Return

**A/N:** My apologies for the short chapter today! I'm going to try and post the next chapter in two weeks (instead of, you know, a month...) to make up for it!

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen**

For years after her marriage to Éomer, Lothíriel had longed for the sound of the sea. In Dol Amroth, it had been a constant, soothing murmur outside her window, but it could not travel across land to Edoras, and in her new home there was only the strange rhythm of her husband's breathing. Yet eventually this, too, became familiar, and after Elfwine was born, the nights had no longer seemed so quiet. She had stopped missing the sea; she had even begun to forget its call.

On the journey to Dol Amroth, she had been too worried about Amrothos to think of much else, but she had fleetingly looked forward to being in her old bedroom, casting the windows open so she could finally hear the sea again. The reality, however, had proven far different. When at last she threw back the shutters, it was to discover that she had returned too late. She no longer recognized the sea's voice—it was too restless, too harsh. She had lain awake and listened to it pour its grievances out upon the sand, and even when she closed the window she could still hear it, now muttering against her.

 _You did this,_ it whispered. _This was your fault._

A year ago, Amrothos had sent her a letter, one of his last. Most of it had been drunken ramblings, words and sentences strung so haphazardly together she could barely make sense of them, but towards the end he had written something that was all too clear: _I think we made a terrible mistake. I have dreamt of it over and over again, that day in the stables. She never wanted me. I think she was a virgin. Elphir deserves to know._

Though he offered to take all the blame, burying her involvement in their scheme, his desire to confess had filled her with alarm. Even if a furious Elphir did not notice a small inconsistency or two in Amrothos's story, their father would. And unlike Elphir, Imrahil already suspected her of bearing ill will towards Gúthwyn.

 _Do not, under any circumstances, tell Elphir,_ she had ordered in her response. _Have you forgotten the conversation I overheard between her and Éomer, in which she admitted she was no longer a maiden? Have you forgotten how brazenly she brought Cobryn to her room in the middle of the night? Even if you can overlook Hammel and Haiweth, she is entirely unsuitable for Elphir. We rescued him from what would have been a disastrous marriage._

She had held her breath for weeks afterwards; whenever a messenger appeared in the Golden Hall, she imagined he had come bearing Elphir and Imrahil's fury, inked black and bitter onto parchment she would unfold with trembling hands. But Amrothos had not broken his silence, and when Elphir and Imrahil's next letters were filled with warm regards for her and Elfwine, she had slowly exhaled in relief.

And now she was paying the price for her selfishness. Amrothos's letter had been a warning, and in her haste to protect herself she had given little thought to the guilt permeating his words. What did she care for his conscience, so long as he kept it to himself? What use did she have for his regret, when she had never doubted that they were doing the right thing for Elphir?

For she and Amrothos _had_ protected him. That Gúthwyn had not gone to Elphir immediately after learning of their scheme was, in Lothíriel's opinion, no less than an outright admission of guilt. If her brother's wife had nothing to hide, why would she not seek to clear her name? The truth was, whether or not Gúthwyn had welcomed Amrothos's advances (Lothíriel did not want to dwell on her nagging suspicion that perhaps Amrothos had been right in this regard), she had still lost her maidenhead to another man, and had quite possibly given birth to at least one child.

But none of this absolved Lothíriel, who had failed to reassure Amrothos in his hour of need.

Rubbing at her eyes, she glanced around to make sure no one in her escort had noticed—she had refused to cry in front of them at any point during their travels, and she was not about to lower her guard less than an hour away from Edoras. When they reached the city gates, she would have to ride through them as if nothing had happened, as if Amrothos had never hanged himself. There would be gossip; there would be speculation; but as long as she did not yield, that was all it would ever be.

A sudden cry rent the air, jolting her from her thoughts. "Riders ahead!"

Before Lothíriel had time to so much as glance up, the circle of guards around her tightened, pushing her and her maid to the center. This close to Edoras, however, she was hardly worried—she just hoped whoever it was would pass them by, content to exchange greetings from afar. Perhaps they would not even realize they were hailing their queen.

At her side, Gamling frowned. "Is that the king?"

Éomer? What would he be doing here? Lothíriel shaded her eyes, squinting at the small, rapidly approaching group. A shock raced through her when she spotted the leader, tall and proud in crimson armor. She had sent ahead word of her arrival—why was he not waiting for her at Meduseld?

But confusion was not the only emotion gripping her. There were others she could not afford to acknowledge, thoughts and sensations she did not want to examine… for a moment, they strove within her, and it was as if the last four years had never happened. She could almost imagine that he was here to surprise her, or perhaps that he could not bear to wait another hour.

The reality was far more unpleasant. Whatever Éomer was doing, it was not for her benefit. Would he be callous enough to go out like this, on the day his wife was supposed to return from visiting her dying brother, and pretend he had forgotten? If the escort had arrived but half an hour later, would she have found the Golden Hall empty, its hearth cold, the servants stammering apologies?

Since she was too far away to discern his expression, she counted the men he had brought with him, wondering if their numbers would tell her anything. That was when she saw the slight figure just behind Éomer, doing his best to keep up on a small, stunted horse.

"Prince Elfwine!" Gamling's astonishment was palpable, and Lothíriel pretended not to see the curious glance he threw at her. "It appears we have a welcoming committee."

Lothíriel was not about to disabuse him of this notion. "Then let us meet them," she said, and at her word the horses sprang forward.

A year ago, something like this would not have surprised her; two years ago, she would have expected it. But she and Éomer had been in a fragile truce ever since the Harad campaign, and moreover she knew she had not imagined the increased warmth between them over the past few months. Then there had been the day before she left Edoras, when he had told her—he had admitted—that he still cared about her…

 _He yelled it at you. In the middle of an argument. As if he only wanted to contradict everything you said._

Yet she was certain that there had been more to his words than mere antagonism, which made his actions now all the more puzzling. Was this a failed attempt at snubbing her, or was Elfhelm closer to the mark than he realized? But Éomer had not forgiven her, not by a long shot, and riding out to meet her—with his men and her guards as witness—was a declaration of its own, sure to raise eyebrows. So what did he intend by it? And why was he involving Elfwine?

There was nothing to do but wait for it all to unfold. The distance between the two groups had closed, and the riders on both sides were slowing down; they were now near enough for her to see the excitement in Elfwine's face and the shadows behind Éomer's helmet.

"Mama!" Elfwine was waving frantically; the watchful eyes of his father's finest warriors were perhaps the only thing that prevented him from launching himself off of Felara and running over for a hug.

Her heart warmed to see him. She had spent many a quiet moment in Dol Amroth wishing he had come with her, though she would have been far too busy to show him around properly even if Éomer had allowed him to go. Which was a shame, for he would have enjoyed all of it: swimming in the ocean, exploring the beaches with Alphros and Huan, sailing with his grandfather in the Bay. More importantly, it would have been a chance for him to spend more time with her family, whom he barely knew.

"Hello, Elfwine," she greeted him, waving back; Éomer still had not spoken a word. "I have missed you."

"I missed you, too! And so did Papa."

Éomer shifted uncomfortably on Firefoot, but Elfwine had forced his hand. As the guards around him tried not to glance at each other, he said, "I trust your journey was safe. We were not expecting you so early today—we were just about to turn around to prepare for your arrival at home."

Lothíriel looked at him doubtfully. While it was possible her escort had made faster progress after breakfast than she had realized, they certainly were not that far off schedule, and Éomer would have been cutting it quite close to turn back now. Had he really planned to be there when she returned?

Yet it would not do to question his motives before an audience that included their son. Lifting her chin, she replied, "Thank you—we met no trouble on the road. It appears our timing was quite fortuitous."

Éomer's eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to gauge her sincerity, but Lothíriel did not waver. Eventually he looked away and motioned for the other riders to fall in behind them. "You must be tired. We will not linger."

Lothíriel bit her tongue as the men she had been leading for the better part of two months slipped seamlessly back under her husband's command. There was no use in protesting this loss of control; all she could do was urge her horse forward, following Éomer and Elfwine to the Golden Hall.

As their pace leveled out to an unhurried trot, Éomer continued, "I have had the cooks preparing lunch. I was not sure if you would prefer to eat or wash first."

Lothíriel nodded, still wary of his intentions—was it all part of an act for Elfwine? Why would he be so careless about returning to Meduseld in time, only to feign such concern for her comfort?

She was no closer to solving this puzzle when Éomer asked, "Is Amrothos—?"

There was a small movement from Elfwine, a flicker of something she could not decipher in his eyes, and she said carefully, "Not well, but better than we had hoped. Elfwine, your grandfather sends his love. I have a letter from him that I will give you once we are home."

Elfwine looked pleased to hear this. "Can I write back?"

"Yes, of course. I know he would appreciate that."

Éomer did not ask her again about Amrothos, and she spent the last stage of her journey to Edoras answering Elfwine's numerous questions about Dol Amroth. When they reached the city, she was relieved to discover that Éomer's odd behavior had worked to her advantage in at least one way, for it appeared that none of the Rohirrim had not been expecting their queen to return so soon after their king's departure, and many were inside eating lunch. By the time heads started poking out of windows, Lothíriel had already ridden past them, and she did not have to listen to any whispers about her brother.

Of course, the one person she _did_ notice was Gúthwyn, who had been deep in conversation with Legolas just inside the city walls. They had to quickly step aside for Éomer and Lothíriel's party, but they did not have much warning, and Lothíriel saw Legolas's arm curl protectively around Gúthwyn as he steered her out of harm's way.

Éomer and Elfwine received a wave from Gúthwyn, Lothíriel a nod; Legolas merely watched her ride past, lowering his arm back to his side. The Elf had distanced himself from her in recent years, and it was plain that he had been informed of the events that had led to Gúthwyn's departure from Rohan. Lothíriel knew, without having to ask, that their friendship would never recover; he would treat her with nothing but cool politeness for the rest of her life.

This was a private regret of hers, for she had always liked Legolas. Yet worse was the sense of loss as she watched him and Gúthwyn together, the fleeting intimacies they stole when they thought no one was looking. Would Éomer ever touch her like that again? There had been a couple of occasions lately when it had seemed… she had hoped… but every time he thawed even a little, he caught himself and hardened once more.

But he had told her that he still cared about her. It had slipped out, like a sudden dislodging of rocks down a slope; he had plainly not intended to say it. She wondered if that meant something, or if she had become so desperate she was foraging for mere scraps of kindness.

Before long, the Golden Hall loomed up before them, and Lothíriel informed Éomer that she would wash after lunch—between a dozen travel-weary warriors and one constantly growing boy, it was wise to have the food brought out as soon as possible. She assumed Éomer would spend most of the meal talking with Gamling, but once they were seated he turned to her and inquired about her family. His voice was gentler than usual, and from his careful phrasing she knew he did not expect her to divulge much in front of his men.

So instead she told him and Elfwine about the latest ship Imrahil had commissioned; Erchirion's hints that he might, after all these years, be ready to settle down ("Open season for the ladies of the court," she remarked, and Éomer made a noise that almost sounded like stifled laughter); how tall Alphros had grown, and the boy's comically inept efforts to teach Huan to fetch things for him.

"I want a dog," Elfwine said. "Can I get one for my birthday?"

"Absolutely not," Éomer and Lothíriel replied in unison. They exchanged startled glances; and Elfwine watched them, looking oddly pleased for a child who had just been told that he could not have a desired birthday present.

"I will be ten," he reminded them after a moment, in case they had forgotten.

Ten! Lothíriel tore her gaze away from Éomer, wondering where all that time had gone.

"Éowyn and Faramir will be here in a few days," Éomer said, and _that_ was an unpleasant surprise—after delaying her return to Edoras, Lothíriel had given hardly any thought to the feast she was supposed to plan, reasoning that she would just have to pull something together quickly when she came back. Now, with slowly dawning dread, it occurred to her that Éowyn and Faramir would not be the only ones who wanted to celebrate Gúthwyn and Legolas's betrothal.

"Aragorn and Arwen should be arriving at the same time," Éomer continued as she froze inside, astonished by her own stupidity. How could she have neglected to discuss this with Éomer before she left? "Gimli will be here in time for the feast, but I am not expecting him much sooner—he is so enthralled with the caves, I imagine someone will have to pull him out."

Lothíriel barely registered the joke. Her mind was racing forward to the days ahead, all the work that would have to be done. Much of it could be delegated to the servants, but it was her responsibility to anticipate the guests' needs, to plan for every eventuality—and here they were, less than a week away, and she had just learned that the king and queen of Gondor would be joining them.

"I have had Cwene begin the preparations," Éomer said as she was starting to panic. "I was not sure how much you would want to do when you came back, and I thought… perhaps it would be one less thing for you to worry about."

Lothíriel tried to conceal her astonishment. Éomer was not usually so considerate—was this an act, performed for the benefit of his listening men? Or was it just because he felt sorry for her?

Well, she would have to interpret his motives later, since there was little time to do so now. "Thank you. I will meet with her after lunch."

"Er—" Éomer shifted as though he had just recalled something. "Before you do, I ought to speak with Gúthwyn. I am not sure if we are celebrating both occasions that night. There might be, ah, a second night…"

"Not sure if—" Lothíriel had to bite back the rest of her incredulous reply. The guests were already on their way, and no one knew when Gúthwyn's betrothal was being announced? Had it not occurred to anyone that this might be a detail of importance?

Elfwine was also regarding Éomer with confusion. "Of course we are celebrating Auntie Gúthwyn's birthday, too, Papa. We always do. And sometimes we celebrate El's, so that is three."

"Well, yes." Éomer's tone was affectedly casual so as not to draw the surrounding Riders' notice. "I will just make sure that is what she wants."

Rather than waste her energy wondering why on Middle-earth Gúthwyn would not want her betrothal to be announced during her and Elfwine's birthday celebrations, Lothíriel decided to let her husband sort it out. As soon as she could, she took her leave of the others and retired to her rooms, where a maid was already drawing up a bath.

Once alone, she disrobed and sank into the water, sighing a little as she was submerged in its heat. Closing her eyes, she thought of how strange a day it had been, from her reunion with Éomer to his unexpected solicitousness during lunch. What had he meant, riding out like that? And why had he sought to ease the burden of her household duties?

Yet her husband's behavior, mysterious though it was, could not long hold sway over her mind, which drifted inexorably towards Dol Amroth. She had been reluctant to leave, lest she miss by mere hours Amrothos opening his eyes—or worse, if his condition deteriorated and she was too far away to come back in time. She wondered which member of her family was holding vigil over him now, whether the servants were remembering to change his sheets as often as she had instructed.

And as she took a deep breath and slid under the water's surface, she wondered something else: when would Elphir read his letter?

* * *

 **Response to Mika:** Ha, yes, unfortunately the men of Rohan aren't as progressive as we'd like them to be... even with Éowyn and Gúthwyn to show them the error of their ways!

I'm a Thranduil fan myself, but his flaws are what make him so interesting to write!

 **Response to RP911:** My eternal struggle of taking too long to write something, lol. I don't actually have any plans for a council scene at this moment - I always feel like such a phony when I write them, since what do I know about running a realm! - but I will be showing the fair!

Yes, Legolas is quite swoon-worthy, isn't he? :)


	17. Vows Betrayed

**WARNING:** This chapter contains a scene that may be disturbing. Please PM me if you have any concerns.

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen**

Éomer felt like a fool.

He could not ask himself what on Middle-earth he had been thinking to ride out that afternoon, for he knew the answer: he had hoped to encounter Lothíriel before she arrived at Meduseld, to reunite with her away from the curious eyes of their servants. His excuses had been flimsy at best, and had Lothíriel not been so worried about Amrothos she would have spotted their flaws like an erroneous figure in one of her charts. But she had not said anything, much to his relief, and they had returned to Edoras without incident.

Now here he was, pacing back and forth across Théodred's room, trying not to think about the fact that only one wall separated him from his wife as she took her bath. At some point he had to talk to her about Amrothos, but he dared not while she was washing herself. Which was ridiculous—he was her husband, and her king, and he had every right to be in his own bedchambers, regardless of the reception he received. In theory, nothing was stopping him from going into the hall this very instant, striding to her door, and pushing it open…

But there was something, quite apart from the certainty that she would not want him there—not the fear of barging in on her while she was unrobed, but the desire. It was costing him every ounce of effort not to imagine her in the bath, a task made all the more difficult because he could still picture every inch of her skin. Reminding himself that this was the woman who had tormented Gúthwyn for years seemed to have little effect on a certain part of his body. It was only another kind of shame that prevailed: that he should be having these thoughts about Lothíriel, when she had just returned from her brother's sickbed.

Gritting his teeth, he turned away from the wall. Part of this was his own doing, as he had not taken another woman to bed since his fallout with Lothíriel, despite a number of offers both discreet and otherwise. Even Gamling had hinted that arrangements could be made, and that Lothíriel would never have to know.

But he had not strayed; throughout all the years in which he had hated his wife, he had remained faithful to his vows. It had nothing to do with Lothíriel—it was a point of honor. He would never forget the disdain he had once seen in Théodred's expression when they watched a married Rider sauntering away from camp with a woman who was not his wife. Théodred had turned to him and said, "A man who shows such disrespect to his wife is not a man at all."

Unfortunately, taking care of such matters by oneself was not the same.

 _Damnit._ This was the last thing he should have been thinking of. He would have to face Lothíriel soon and inquire about her brother, and whether Amrothos was likely to make a full recovery. From the slight tremble in her lips when she answered the only questions he had ventured to ask in front of her escort, it seemed there had been little improvement.

Wondering if she had finished her bath yet—and hoping, for his peace of mind, that she had changed into a modest gown with plenty of laces—he sent a servant to confer with one of her maids. Two minutes later, the servant returned to inform him that the maids had been dismissed and the bath emptied. The queen was alone in her chambers.

Outside her door, he hesitated; then he raised his fist and knocked.

"Come in," Lothíriel called after a pause.

Éomer's palms felt strangely damp against the door handle, and as he entered his former bedchamber he found he was holding his breath. _Stop being ridiculous,_ he chastised himself. "I just wanted to see—"

The rest of the sentence slipped from his mouth as Lothíriel turned away from the mirror, clad in nothing but a thin dressing robe.

"Sorry?" she asked, a slight wrinkle forming in her brow.

If Éomer had learned anything in his time as a warrior, it was how to quickly regain his bearings in a disadvantageous setting. "I just wanted to see how you were doing," he told her, dragging his eyes away from all the places where her skin slid smoothly under her robe. "And… and to ask how your brother fares."

Lothíriel nodded. She seemed to have become smaller somehow, and the circles he had noticed earlier beneath her eyes were more pronounced in the candlelight. "I am well, thank you," she answered, avoiding his gaze. "Just tired from the journey."

"And Amrothos?" he pressed when she fell silent.

Lothíriel turned away, but not before he saw her eyes glimmer. "He has not woken up. Not once. He just lies there—he might as well be dead." Her voice cracked; even without the telltale hitch of breath, Éomer knew she was crying. "I tried calling to him, I tried shaking him, I even—I even held open his eyes so he would have to look at me, but he never so much as stirred. The servants have to feed him and bathe him as if he were an infant. It is so awful to—to watch—he would hate it if he could see, he would want us to—"

The rest of her sentence was swallowed by a gasp, as if she were drowning.

Éomer did not realized he had crossed the room until his arms were circling around her, drawing her to his chest. At first she stiffened, and he thought he had made a horrible mistake; but then all the tension drained from her body, and she sank into his embrace.

She sobbed then, as he had never heard her before, and it was all he could do to keep her from collapsing to the floor. The scent of the soap she had used was everywhere; the aching familiarity of it overpowered him, and he could not imagine how he had gone this long without holding her.

In a flash, he understood: he wanted her. He wanted her at his side, and in his bed, the way things had been before. He wanted to talk to her about his day, to listen as she spoke of hers, to pore over charts with her in the council room and watch in admiration as she made perfect sense of those endless numbers. And above all, he wanted them to be Elfwine's parents once more, united instead of at war.

This longing hit him with such force, he could only weather it by tightening his arms around her. Even thoughts of Gúthwyn could not overcome his desire—and had she not begged him to reconcile with Lothíriel, if only for Elfwine's sake? He was tired of hating his wife. And equally tired of missing her.

She was saying something, the words muffled against his chest. As he bent his head to listen, their cheeks brushed together, sending a shiver down his spine.

"I-I am sorry."

"Sorry?" The word weighed strangely on his tongue, and for reasons he could not explain he felt suddenly apprehensive.

"For everything." Lothíriel's weeping grew louder as she looked up at him so that he might hear her better; he knew what it must have cost her to let him see her like this. "I-I should never have… _goaded_ Amrothos into—into pursuing your sister, a-and all the other things I did… I-I am so sorry. I-If I could go back, I would never have done it. Th-These past years h-have been _awful_ —for both of us a-and Elfwine—and because of me… Éomer, I am truly sorry."

It was everything Éomer could have hoped for—how many times had he imagined her feeling remorse for her actions, apologizing to him and Gúthwyn for all the harm she had done? But now that the moment had come, and the words were cascading from her lips, he was oddly impervious to them. He should have been rejoicing, so why did he feel so numb?

He looked into her eyes, dark and beautiful as a wintry sky, and he knew.

"You are not sorry for what you did to my sister," he said quietly, pulling back. "You are sorry that dragging your brother into your schemes has indirectly led to him hanging himself."

Lothíriel flinched, but she also hesitated, and in that heartbeat of silence he heard everything he needed to know. "You do not care about Gúthwyn," he said in breathless wonder. "This has nothing to do with her at all."

"Of course it does," Lothíriel insisted, though her cheeks were flushed. "If I had not—if I had not done what I did to her—Amrothos thought I was going too far, but I-I insisted—I had no idea—"

"So at least one of you has a conscience," Éomer said coldly, "but instead of apologizing and avowing her innocence, he took the coward's way out."

"Do not call him a coward!"

"A pathetic, despicable little coward," Éomer spat. "He said not one word while Gúthwyn's reputation was destroyed, and he held his tongue when Elphir denounced her. And then, instead of coming forward, he tried to kill himself. Only he could not even do that correctly."

Swift as a spear, Lothíriel made to slap him, but Éomer was faster. He caught her hand, wrenching it back down.

"Let go of me," she snarled in humiliation, and he did—though not without being tempted to crush those fine, delicate bones in his fist. The second her hand was free, she drew back, like a cornered snake ready to strike. "And do not blame my brother for what happened to her reputation. Amrothos and I may have put the final nail in the coffin, but she dug that grave all by herself."

"What on Middle-earth—" Éomer's swelling fury was cut off by a sudden bark of laughter as he realized what Lothíriel meant. "I know you started the rumors about Hammel and Haiweth, but I never would have guessed you to be so foolish as to believe them!"

"And I never would have guessed you to be so foolish as to believe that _I_ started those rumors," Lothíriel said scornfully. " _I_ heard about her indiscretions well before I even met you—everyone was talking about her, the king of Rohan's younger sister with two children and no husband in sight. Did you really think for one second that anyone had swallowed your feeble story about Hammel and Haiweth being war orphans?"

"No," Éomer growled, "but as my wife I expected you to take my word for it!"

"Take your word for it? When you refused to tell me anything about her, no matter how bizarrely she acted? She was starving herself, jumping whenever someone spoke to her, running out of rooms without warning and contracting a new illness every other month—and I was supposed to ignore it and pretend that this was perfectly normal behavior, without having the slightest idea what was wrong with her? And you, my husband, you left me in the dark because your poor baby sister needed _protecting_ —from what? From what, Éomer? What did you expect me to think when I had to find out at the dinner table that she had been a slave in Isengard and Mordor?"

"You were not supposed to _think_ , you were supposed to show her compassion!"

"For what, being a whore?"

There was a silence, in which even Lothíriel realized she had gone too far; and then Éomer grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her into the wall.

He heard the breath leave her, followed by a strangled cry of pain, but he did not care—in fact, he wanted to do worse. Only his last remaining shreds of self-control held him back. "You will never call her that again," he snarled.

Lothíriel was too stunned to answer; the whites of her eyes were larger than he had ever seen them. For a moment, he was actually worried about how dazed she seemed, and he realized he could not recall how much force he had used to push her. But slowly her eyes refocused, as did his anger, and when she tried to massage her chest with her hand, he grabbed it and flung it back down to her side.

Incredibly, she defied him. "I am—only—telling the truth," she rasped. "Hurting me will not change that."

"You know nothing about my baby sister," Éomer spat, shaking with hatred. If Gríma Wormtongue had suddenly appeared next to his wife, he did not know which of them he would have liked to strangle first. It was obvious that Lothíriel felt no remorse for what she had done—not for sabotaging Gúthwyn's engagement, not for ruining her reputation, not even for instructing Amrothos to assault her. Nor did she care about the pain she had caused Elfwine or Elphir, both of them collateral damage in her campaign against Gúthwyn.

She was a monster. And he had married her.

"I know she is not a virgin," Lothíriel said then, her eyes locking on his.

Éomer's grip on her shoulders tightened. He was likely leaving bruises, but this was forgotten as a cold dread swept over him.

"Do not waste your breath denying it." Lothíriel's voice was weak, yet determined. "I heard it straight from her own mouth—you both thought I was asleep, but I heard everything. You were whispering over Elfwine's cradle. She told you she was no longer a maiden. And you _comforted_ her."

The conversation had happened so long ago, Éomer barely remembered it. But one look at Lothíriel's triumphant gaze told him that he would gain nothing by feigning ignorance—she had carried this memory with her for years, ready to turn it against him when she had no other weapons left, and he did not doubt that she would have been able to quote the exchange in full.

The power of speech deserted him at this crucial moment, and Lothíriel seized the advantage—even though it was her back pressed against the wall, her arms that were pinned helplessly by his. "You _knew_ , Éomer," she said accusingly, her eyes piercing his soul. "You knew even before that night—you were not surprised in the least when she told you. And you still thought to trick my brother into marrying her!"

"I did no such thing," Éomer said hoarsely.

"You deliberately withheld that information knowing full well that it would have changed everything," Lothíriel spat. "My father had his doubts about Gúthwyn, but he trusted you. And you repaid that trust with deceit."

Éomer's conscience did at times grumble about this less than honorable episode of his past, but he would not apologize for protecting his sister. "Elphir was hardly a virgin himself," he pointed out instead, foolishly.

"As if _you_ were," she shot back, "and you still expected me to come to our marriage bed an innocent! But why should Elphir have a faithful wife, oh, no. Let him have worthless, spoiled goods!"

 _Worthless, spoiled goods._

Her words rang in Éomer's ears, leaving him breathless with rage, until it all coalesced into a single, determined thought: to make Lothíriel _see_ what she had done to Gúthwyn. To make her feel the pain, the degradation that she had so callously wrought upon his baby sister. To make her, no, _force_ her to understand what that humiliation and fear was like, so that she would never again be so eager to deal it out to another.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

Lothíriel stiffened in his grasp. "What?"

"You heard me." Éomer stepped back, releasing her. "That robe, take it off."

Lothíriel had not expected this. He saw the confusion in her eyes as she pulled away from him. "Have you gone mad?"

Éomer folded his arms across his chest. "I am waiting."

The disbelief in her expression turned to wariness—she still could not tell if he was serious, but she was beginning to fear that he might be. Her voice trembled as she answered, "I will not allow you to bully me, or to—to—use me like that. Go find some tavern maid, if that is what you want."

"I do not want a tavern maid. I want my wife, and I will have her, whether she deigns to allow it or not."

Lothíriel stared at him with growing unease. The man before her was not her husband, and she did not know how to deal with this stranger who had taken his place. Éomer saw her eyes darting towards the door, and he heard the breath she took when she decided to brazen him out. "This is ridiculous," she said—faintly at first, her voice slowly regaining its former strength. "I am leaving. We can resume this conversation when you have returned to your senses."

And she tried to walk past him, but he put out an arm and stopped her.

The air in the room changed as an unspoken line was crossed. Lothíriel shrank back from him, the pulse at her throat noticeably quickening. "What are you doing?"

He drew closer, angling towards the bed. "I am only claiming what is rightfully mine."

"Stop it." Lothíriel was close to panicking, and she flinched when he took another step towards her. "If you touch me, I will scream."

"Will you?" Éomer smiled humorlessly. "And who will come? The guards? They are under my command, and they will not answer to you. The servants? They will obey when I tell them to leave us alone. Your maids might give me dirty looks the next time they see me, but they will not intervene."

The unsteady rise and fall of her chest told him that she had considered all this, and she knew he was right. "Elfwine," she said desperately.

"He is out with Legolas for an archery lesson," Éomer reminded her, thanking the Valar that this was so. His mouth quirked with something approaching a grin as he added, "Gúthwyn went with them, too. Which is unfortunate for you, because she is one of the few who would dare to try and stop me. Even after the way you treated her."

He took another step forward, and she took another step back, both of them keenly aware of the dwindling space between her and the wall.

The words came from his mouth, but he did not recognize his own voice. "Get on the bed."

Lothíriel was trembling from head to foot, and her eyes glimmered as she looked at him. Even so, there was no mistaking the defiance in her answer. "I will not."

Éomer sprang forward.

"No!" Lothíriel cried as he knocked aside her hands, hoisting her over his shoulder as easily as he had once picked up Elfwine. "Éomer, no—stop this at once—Éomer—"

Despite his earlier claims, Éomer prayed that none of the servants were nearby to hear the sounds of their struggle. He flung Lothíriel onto the mattress, where she immediately tried to scramble away from him, but he was too quick for her. Catching her by the ankle, he pulled her back, then pushed her down and climbed on top of her.

She fought. He had expected some resistance, but he was caught off-guard by how long she raged against him, when she had to have known it was futile. Her hips and legs twisted beneath him, until at last he pinned them under his own; she clawed and scratched and would have gouged out his eyes had he not finally grabbed her wrists and yanked them over her head.

It was over in less than a minute. She, a woman; he, a warrior, taller, stronger, trained to subdue his opponent. What chance was there for her? What chance had there been for Gúthwyn, sixteen and alone, against an immortal Elf?

Lothíriel's breath came in panicked, shuddering gasps; she did not have enough air left in her to scream. He would never forget the way she was staring at him, the helpless terror in her eyes. And when he reached between them and undid the belt of her robe, he saw a part of her disappear, and something even worse take its place: resignation.

She turned her head, so she would not have to watch.

Éomer gazed down at her, his wife preparing herself to be raped, and he remembered the vows they had sworn to each other, the promises he had made to protect her. He remembered Gúthwyn crying herself to sleep in his arms after confessing what Haldor had done to her, and he wondered if she, too, had tried to look away.

"When my baby sister was in Mordor," he said, "someone did this to her."

Lothíriel stiffened beneath him.

"She thought he loved her. And instead he raped her. He told her that if she resisted, he would kill Hammel and Haiweth. That is why she is no longer a virgin."

For a moment, the only sound between them was Lothíriel's shallow breathing.

"She spent years thinking it was her fault. For all I know, part of her still believes this. Do you understand now what your rumors did to her? How it must have felt to be called a whore, to be accused of seducing half of my men, when she still blamed herself for what that monster did to her? I suppose it never occurred to you that she had been unwilling. That perhaps you were wrong about her."

"Éomer—"

"Be quiet," he hissed, pressing all his weight down on her. "You have no idea how much that man destroyed her. You have no idea what it was like to watch her fall apart when she told me what he had done. What it was like when she had one of those fits, when something reminded her of him and suddenly she was so terrified she could not see me in front of her.

"So yes, I lied to your father. I lied to your brother. She never wanted another man to touch her again, but I thought marriage would help her move forward, and I did not see how it was fair that she should be ruined for something that was done to her. I thought—I hoped—Elphir would be understanding.

"But we never found out, did we. Because you and your disgusting excuse for a brother did everything in your power to separate them, as if Elphir and Gúthwyn's lives were a game to you. And apparently it was not enough that you slandered her in every way possible, because you—the woman I loved, the woman I trusted, the mother of my child—you gave Amrothos permission to rape her!"

"I never—"

Lothíriel's feeble protest incensed him so much that he squeezed her wrists until she cried out in pain. "Do not lie to me. Cobryn told me exactly what you said to Nethiel: _I told him to take things as far as he had to._ Those were your words, were they not?"

"I thought—"

"What, that because she was not a virgin it was perfectly all right for Amrothos to have his way with her? That she was already 'worthless, spoiled goods,' so what difference did it make, even if he had to force her?"

Lothíriel's silence sickened him. He wanted to get up, walk away from his marriage bed, and wash himself in the coldest, most inhospitable river he could find. He wanted to turn back time, to draw a veil of ignorance over his eyes once more; were it not for Elfwine, he would have gone back even further, to that bright afternoon when he first saw her riding through the gates of Minas Tirith, and he would have looked away before she ensnared him in her spell.

Yet the past was intractable; the future, his only recourse. And in the end, there was only one thing he could do.

Lothíriel flinched as his weight shifted, only to stare at him in confusion as he slid off the bed. "W-What are you doing?"

"Your brother may find sport in raping women, but I do not," Éomer informed her.

"You—what?" Lothíriel tried to sit up, but her arms were shaking too badly. Like a wounded animal, she dragged herself away from Éomer, putting as much distance between them as possible. He had not seen a worse sight on the bloodiest battlefield.

Knowing that he could not stay in this room any longer, he said curtly, "The only difference between you and Gúthwyn is that I stopped. Think about that the next time you want to call her a whore."

He made it as far as the door before he had to turn around again. Lothíriel was still frozen in place, unable to comprehend this sudden reversal of fortune, and she stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. "If you tell anyone what I told you about Gúthwyn, this farce of a marriage is over. I will send you back to Dol Amroth, and you will never see Elfwine again."

Unable to wait for a response, he stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him, taking what felt like his first breath in several minutes. As he stood there, panting, he kept his ears open, listening for any sounds in the bedroom. It was nearly a minute before he heard the slightest rustle; then, suddenly, Lothíriel ran to the door and bolted it shut.

This act seemed to drain the last of her energy, and he heard a _thump_ as she slid to the floor, not two feet away from him.

Every fiber of his being yearned to go to her, but he knew he could not. Instead, he forced himself to go back to his chambers. There he washed his face and hands, noticing that the latter were shaking—they had been so steady moments ago when he was holding his wife down on their marriage bed, when he had needed her to believe that she was going to be raped.

It stunned him, how easy it had been. Lothíriel was barely half his size; her desperate struggles had had no more effect on him than a buzzing fly. Gúthwyn had been trained to fight, but if Haldor had been anything like Legolas—whom Éomer knew to be far stronger than himself—even she could not have hoped to escape him.

Yet worst of all was the realization that he now knew exactly how terrified his baby sister had been when she was overpowered by Haldor, because he had seen that same fear in Lothíriel's eyes. The confusion and disbelief giving way to horror, desperation, and finally—when there was nothing else to be done, when no help was coming—acceptance.

And Éomer, the mightiest warrior of Rohan, began to weep.

* * *

 **Response to Wicked:** Thank you! I'm a Game of Thrones fan, so I'm very flattered by the comparison! I've actually never thought about the parallels between Lothiriel and Cersei before, but now that you point them out, they're very striking.

 **Response to RP911:** Ah, yes, Éomer's introductory scene! I'm always amused by how antagonistic he was towards Legolas - if only he knew he was speaking to his future brother-in-law!

I loved reading your comments about Éomer and Lothíriel; I'd be interested to hear what you thought of them this chapter. I was a little hesitant about going in this direction.

To answer your question - Dirbenn will not be returning in this epilogue (although I can only imagine what he would think of Gúthwyn now!), but I am planning for him to make an appearance in the alternate ending. So we haven't seen the last of him yet... you might just have to wait, um, a while...


	18. An Interview With the Queen

**Chapter Eighteen**

After an enjoyable breakfast together, Gúthwyn and Legolas decided to take a walk; but this plan was soon foiled by Cwene, who hurried over as their plates were being cleared and informed Gúthwyn that the queen had requested her presence.

Gúthwyn hesitated, exchanging a wary look with Legolas. "Did she say what for?"

"No, my lady, she did not." But Cwene seemed troubled, and as Gúthwyn reluctantly followed her to Lothíriel's chambers, she felt herself bracing as if for a fight. These summons were a breach of their unspoken pledge to avoid one another, and she wondered if whatever Lothíriel wanted to discuss had something to do with Amrothos. Or Elphir.

Unfortunately, all she had were guesses, because she had not actually seen Lothíriel since yesterday, when she and Legolas had almost been run over by her returning escort. They had chosen not to attend lunch in order to give Éomer and Lothíriel a chance to discuss Amrothos's condition in private, but afterwards they were nowhere to be found, and both of them had missed dinner that night—Lothíriel pleading fatigue, and Éomer a headache.

Gúthwyn had later overheard one of the maids whispering that the queen had spent all afternoon barricaded in her room, and they were under strict orders not to attend to her. But surely if Amrothos had died, someone would have mentioned it by now. So what had happened? And what could Lothíriel want with her?

Upon reaching their destination, Cwene knocked at the door. "I have brought Lady Gúthwyn, Queen Lothíriel."

"Come in," they heard after a pause. Was it Gúthwyn's imagination, or had Lothíriel's voice sounded rather strained?

Cwene showed her in, but the maid did not linger; the door closed again behind her, and Gúthwyn was left alone with Lothíriel. Yet the unpleasantness of this situation was forgotten in the shock of seeing her brother's wife, who looked pale and exhausted, as if she had not slept in weeks. Such was her appearance that Gúthwyn very nearly asked if she were ill, but she restrained herself at the last second—such an inquiry would not have been welcomed.

Lothíriel was sitting, straight-backed and stiff, at her desk. "Please, sit," she said, gesturing to a nearby chair.

Gúthwyn obeyed, though not without trepidation. Up close, the circles beneath the other woman's eyes were shockingly apparent, and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from commenting.

"I hope you had a safe journey," she ventured hesitantly, but Lothíriel continued as if she had not spoken.

"Elfwine's birthday—and yours—is in three days. It is unclear to me whether we will also be celebrating your betrothal at this feast."

"Oh," Gúthwyn said, taken aback. "Er—"

"I have been told that King Elessar will be arriving with Faramir, and that Lord Gimli is also planning to make the journey from Helm's Deep. An announcement, it seems, is imminent, but what no one can tell me is whether I am to prepare for one feast or two."

"Ah." In fact, Gúthwyn had never discussed such particulars with Legolas, and she knew he had simply assumed the announcement would be made during the birthday feast. After all, Hammel and Haiweth would be arriving in Edoras that day, and it would only be natural for her to tell them immediately.

But she was beginning to have second thoughts about this, though she had not yet found the words to articulate her concerns to Legolas. The truth was, she had become suddenly, dreadfully certain that she did not want to tell the children on June thirteenth, a day on which nothing ever seemed to go right. She was convinced that if Hammel and Haiweth found out on that day that she was engaged to Legolas, they would not take the news nearly so well as they would the following morning, which would be a much safer time.

This was foolish, she knew; she cringed whenever she imagined Legolas or Cobryn's faces as she informed them of her fears. Éomer would abide by her choice, since it would not matter one way or the other to him, but Legolas… what would he think?

Lothíriel was still waiting for an answer, her eyebrows raised. Gúthwyn made a split-second decision, which at once she felt was a mistake, and said, "I-I suppose we will have two feasts. We can… announce the betrothal later."

"You suppose." Lothíriel's voice was unnervingly devoid of all emotion.

"Y-Yes." If worse came to worse, Gúthwyn assured herself, and Legolas did not wish to delay the announcement, plans could be changed… but a second feast with no clear purpose would not be so odd, since Aragorn and Arwen would be visiting. Either way, Lothíriel's work would not go to waste.

"As you wish." Lothíriel did not sound quite convinced of Gúthwyn's commitment to her decision, but unusually she chose not to press further, instead making a note on a piece of parchment.

Gúthwyn started to rise. "Is that all, then?"

Lothíriel glanced up, but did not answer. Her gaze had fixed on Gúthwyn in an unsettling way; she might have been simply arrested mid-thought, or she might have been searching for something in Éomund's daughter, though it was unclear what. Gúthwyn waited for a moment, but when nothing happened she cleared her throat.

"Lothíriel?"

Perhaps her voice had been too loud, for Lothíriel gave the tiny, jerking movement of someone who had been startled and was attempting to conceal the fact. Her pupils widened; her hands swept under the desk. "Were you saying something?"

"Er… no." Gúthwyn looked at the queen, realizing just how pale she was. "Is everything all right? I mean, is Amrothos—is he—"

"Amrothos?"

Lothíriel's voice had risen to a much higher pitch than usual, and Gúthwyn proceeded cautiously. "I only meant… is he… better?"

Her question was met with a widening of dapple-grey eyes. "How… After everything…"

Gúthwyn watched in confusion as Lothíriel trailed off, her shoulders stiff, her gaze turned inwards. "What do you mean?" she asked, but the queen did not seem to hear, lost as she was in whatever mood had seized her. Gúthwyn's alarm grew: this was not like Lothíriel, who despite her faults had always been in absolute command of her faculties. Had Amrothos's condition deteriorated so badly?

Yet something else was stirring within her, the wisps of a memory or some other knowledge that made her think she had seen Lothíriel's expression before. There was nothing inherently sinister about losing one's train of thought, and yet the queen's mannerisms were so familiar, Gúthwyn was disquieted when she could not place them.

Whatever was troubling Lothíriel, however, any attempts to probe for an explanation would be resisted. At first she thought to seek Éomer, but then she remembered the previous night's dinner, her and Legolas doing their best to distract Elfwine from worrying about his parents' absence. If the two of them had argued, then perhaps it would not be wise to risk another fight. But whom would Lothíriel confide in, if not Éomer? Who would be able to offer her comfort?

 _No one,_ Gúthwyn realized after a moment. _She has no one._ Lothíriel's family seemed not to know the extent of her estrangement from Éomer; she had had no companions since Nethiel; and poor Elfwine was being kept in the dark, albeit with limited success.

It was pity that finally made her ask, "Do you want me to find Éomer?"

At her husband's name, Lothíriel flinched, like she had been whipped. "No. There is no need for that. My brother's condition has neither improved nor worsened. Thank you for your concern."

 _Oh, Éomer,_ Gúthwyn thought in dismay. _Why did you have to argue with her so soon after her return?_ He ought to have known better—when his wife had been so recently at her brother's sickbed!

"Well—if you are sure…" Even though she could hardly blame Lothíriel for not wanting to see Éomer, she was reluctant to leave her in such a state.

"Yes, I am quite sure, thank you." Lothíriel's voice was calmer now; she had swept a cloak over her features once more, concealing her agitation behind an impenetrable smoothness. The transformation was as swift as it was disturbing.

Since there was little else she could do, and the queen obviously wanted to be left alone, Gúthwyn made her excuses and departed, closing the door behind her. Bewildered by all that had transpired during the last five minutes, she returned to the throne room and saw, to her relief, that Legolas had waited for her—and, what was more, Cobryn was sitting next to him.

"Legolas was telling me the queen summoned you," he greeted her. "What did she want?"

"She wanted…" Gúthwyn paused, her mind still turning over everything that had happened. "She wanted to ask me about the timing of the betrothal announcement. At the feast." This last part she added in hopes of avoiding further questions—she knew she would have to tell Legolas about her decision to postpone the announcement, but this was a conversation she needed to have with him alone.

Cobryn, of course, was far too perceptive not to realize that she had left something unspoken. "And what else?"

"And… well, she was acting rather oddly."

"Has Amrothos taken a turn for the worse?"

"No, she said he was the same… but…"

After several seconds passed without Gúthwyn finishing her sentence, Cobryn raised an eyebrow. "An ailing brother with no signs of improvement would likely explain her altered demeanor."

Gúthwyn could not think of a way to properly describe her exchange with Lothíriel; much of her uneasiness was based on now indistinct recollections of the queen's body language, as well as a vague impression of having witnessed such behavior before, neither of which were sufficient enough evidence for Cobryn. "Yes, I suppose you are right."

She met Legolas's eyes as she spoke; by a flicker of movement, she could tell that he had perceived her lack of conviction. And while Cobryn's powers of observation were no less potent, he evidently could not linger to use them, for he was standing up to leave. "I have a meeting with Aldor," he said when asked. "Enjoy your day—it is a good morning for a walk."

"A walk would be nice," Gúthwyn said once she and Legolas were alone, thinking that a conversation would have better cover amidst the general bustle of the outdoors than in the post-breakfast lull of the throne room. "Shall we?"

Out they went into the sunny streets, taking care to maintain enough distance between them to forestall any raised eyebrows.

"I know Lothíriel must be travel-weary, not to mention afraid for Amrothos," Gúthwyn began once they were down the stairs and out of the guards' earshot, "but there _was_ something off about her…"

"Yes, I thought that was what you meant," Legolas replied. "What gave you that impression?"

"Well…" Gúthwyn recalled her meeting with Lothíriel, probing the memory for clues. They had been talking about the betrothal announcement… the queen's face had been like marble, cold and smooth, but something had betrayed her… "Her hands," she finally remembered. "They were shaking, and then she hid them under the table. And her eyes—they were so… they were so…"

Why had those eyes troubled her so much?

"They reminded me…" she began, and then stopped.

"Of what?" Legolas asked gently.

Gúthwyn could not find the words to describe her unease, until all at once they came to her as if she had known the whole time. "Me. She reminded me of me."

A wrinkle lined Legolas's brow. "What do you mean?"

She almost wished she had not spoken aloud—it was embarrassing to explain, although the Valar knew he had seen her in this state often enough. "The way—the way I used to be sometimes. When I was frightened and it felt like I was all by myself, even if I was surrounded by people. And I had to pretend that everything was fine, when it could not have been further from the truth."

Legolas considered her answer, and after a moment of rather anxious waiting on her part he said, "You speak as though this were in the past. But that is what was happening when Éomer wanted to discuss the 'liberties' of our betrothal. And when I asked you about Haldor."

It was a statement, not a question, and she reluctantly nodded.

Legolas's eyes filled with compassion. "That is how you feel? In those moments?"

She nodded again, staring at a group of children who were playing up ahead on the road. So long as she focused on them, she might not have to see Legolas's reaction. But then she remembered that she had told him about Haldor making her eat, and he had not run away; what was more, he still loved her, despite all the shameful things she had confessed.

She dared to look at him again, and she saw that he was frowning, but only in thought. "That must be frightening to experience."

Cautiously, she admitted that it was. "I always feel sick when it happens."

Legolas hesitated. "Does my presence make it worse?"

He seemed almost as uneasy while waiting for her answer as she had felt after telling him about Haldor. She opened her mouth to reply, and then reconsidered, momentarily at a loss. She could still vividly remember all the times a glimpse of him had sent her into a panic, making it nearly impossible to breathe. And how, whenever he visited Rohan, her sleep had been tormented by a surge of nightmares.

Many years had passed since then, and now she looked forward to seeing him each day; she woke up and smiled when she remembered that he was here, in her home, and they were not to be parted for as long as she lived. But would that change when they shared a bed, and she was obliged to perform her wifely duties? And what if her dreams about Haldor returned? What comfort could Legolas give her then?

"I do not experience these… these attacks as often as I once did," she finally said. "And your presence has only made things better for me over the past couple of months. So I hope… I hope that we need not worry."

It was a weaker assurance than she would have liked to give, but it was a realistic one, and Legolas seemed to understand it as such. "Do you think that something similar was afflicting the queen?" he asked, returning them to their previous subject.

Gúthwyn nodded. "And more and more, I am beginning to believe that Éomer was somehow the cause. He can be… I do not want to say this about him, but he can be cruel to her. I hope he did not make some comment about Amrothos."

"You could always ask him," Legolas suggested, echoing Cobryn's advice.

"I just might." Gúthwyn fell quiet as they passed Magar, out on a rare excursion from his forge. The blacksmith glanced between her and Legolas, but did not offer a greeting. This reminder of Aldeth, and subsequently Hammel, made her take a deep breath. "Legolas, can I ask you something? About our betrothal?"

"Of course."

"I have been thinking… Hammel and Haiweth will both be arriving on the thirteenth, the day of the feast. And of course we have to tell them—I mean, I have to tell them—but I was wondering if… if maybe it would be possible to wait until the next morning."

Legolas looked at her in surprise. "Until the next morning?" he repeated uncomprehendingly.

"I know it sounds silly, but… I have told you before about how most of my birthdays, ever since I was captured, have been utterly horrible. Sometimes it seems like June thirteenth is cursed for me, and I cannot help but fear that if Hammel and Haiweth find out then, something awful will happen. I-I know it is foolish, but I feel it so strongly."

Legolas's expression became increasingly grave as he listened to her, and when he answered it was to say, "Hammel and Haiweth are in your care, and I will respect the decisions you make concerning them, though I may not always agree. But if you would have my counsel"—his eyes locked with hers, and not for the world would she have been able to look away—"then I would say to you: my heart warns me that this is not the right choice. I believe that you ought to inform them as soon as possible, so there is no opportunity for them to hear the news from someone else first."

"Éowyn and Faramir have been keeping it a secret from Haiweth," Gúthwyn said hastily. "And Gimli has promised that he will not mention anything to Hammel."

Legolas shook his head. "They are not the ones who worry me. It is that watchman who saw us last month. It is the washing-woman who winks whenever she sees us. Your friend Lebryn. And they are likely not the only ones who have noticed. All it would take is a passing comment to Hammel or Haiweth, a rumor whispered in their hearing. You say you are certain that telling them on the thirteenth would be a mistake, but I am equally certain that waiting would be even worse, and I would urge you not to delay."

The strength of his conviction was almost enough to make her reconsider—but when she considered the alternative, she was gripped with near paralyzing terror. And a voice murmured that perhaps she and Legolas were both right, that perhaps there was no way to avoid the disaster looming ahead.

"I will think about it," she said quietly as a chill sank into her bones.

"You have already decided."

Legolas spoke without reproach, but Gúthwyn was almost too ashamed to nod. "This does not mean that I do not value your advice. It is just that—"

"There is no need to apologize," Legolas said. "We will not always agree on everything. You are doing what you believe is right, and though it is not the course I would choose, it may be that yours holds true. All I ask is that you do not delay any longer than the next morning. Please."

Gúthwyn promised that she would speak with Hammel and Haiweth as soon as they awoke. She gave him this willingly, with every intension of seeing it through. For as much as she would have liked to shy away from the unpleasant task, she knew it had to be done—just not on June thirteenth.

Legolas was relieved, if not entirely reassured, by her agreement, and he did not press the matter further. Instead he changed the subject to Elfwine's lessons, and this matter kept them occupied until the end of their walk.

* * *

 **Response to RP911:** No apologies necessary! I always appreciate hearing your thoughts. I'm glad I was able to convey just how tempted Éomer was by Lothíriel's apology - he's been torn for so long between wanting to forgive her and being unable to forget what she did to Gúthwyn.

Lothíriel's assumptions have always been based on her first impressions of Gúthwyn, which were unfortunately reinforced by things Gúthwyn herself said (her defense of the slaves and her admission to loving one of them), as well as Éomer's evasiveness on the matter. If she hadn't grown to dislike Gúthwyn so much, she would have eventually given it more thought and realized that something was amiss, but it's easier to sneer at a rival for perceived character failings than to pity them.

Yes, Éomer is now finding himself yet again in the uncomfortable position of supporting his sister in a marriage with someone who doesn't know the truth about her. And now that Lothíriel's forced him to confront his role in deceiving Elphir, he'll definitely be wondering about the right thing to do with Legolas.

Ironically, Sansa's storyline in the fifth season was why I stopped watching the show... but I have a lot of issues with how Game of Thrones handles its rape scenes. =/

Thank you for your comments about the fight's climax - you felt exactly what I wanted the reader to feel during that scene. On the one hand, you have the horrific nature of Éomer's deed and the violation of Lothíriel's sense of safety in her home; on the other, you have Lothíriel's offenses against Gúthwyn and her refusal to apologize or even feel remorse for what she did. Even if Éomer's desperate act makes her realize how much she hurt Gúthwyn, how can that justify the way he treated her?

One thing's for sure - Éomer and Lothíriel have a long road ahead, and the odds are against them.


	19. A Truce

**Chapter Nineteen**

Lothíriel was born a daughter, a princess, bound to home and hearth. Not her lot to be one of Imrahil's sons, a prince to ride off to battle, mail gleaming and sword sharpened. Nay, she was destined to be left behind, to wait—first in her father's palace, now in her husband's hall—her only defenses her words and wit.

A warrior she may not have been. But she was still Lothíriel, queen of Rohan and princess of Dol Amroth, descended from a lineage that could trace its roots to Númenor and even the immortal Elves. She had been married for political gain and she had not shied from it; no, she had walked with open eyes towards her father's alliance, and she had traveled to a strange land and borne her husband an heir because that was her duty. And none could say that she did not do her duty.

She was a queen, a princess. She did not show weakness to her allies, let alone her enemies. Her innermost desires, her doubts, her fears—these were to be locked away, revealed only to a select few. The face she showed her subjects was a mask forged of steel, of adamant, of that which did not break. There could be no cracks, no glimpses of what lay beneath.

What had happened yesterday—she would not allow herself to dwell on it—did not change that. In three days, royal guests would descend upon her hall, and she was expected to greet them with lodgings, refreshment, and smiles. She did not have time to think about what her husband had almost done to her. She would not.

And yet.

She ordered the maids to wash King Elessar's bedding a second time, because their first was not to her satisfaction—and then she remembered having to sleep on the other side of her bed, the side on which her husband had not pinned her against the covers, his eyes blacker than an abyss. She remembered how suffocating those covers had felt, smothering her, making it impossible to breathe, until at last she had flung them aside and wrapped herself in an extra robe.

She walked into the throne room before breakfast and saw no more of Éomer than a glimpse of his head, bent in discussion with Gamling, and before the sight of him had even registered she was back in the corridor, back in her chambers, and she would never know how long she had waited until her hands stopped shaking.

She directed the airing of Faramir and Éowyn's rooms, and she wondered if Éowyn knew what her brother looked like when there was nothing inside of him but hatred. She wondered if Faramir had ever pushed his wife against a wall before dragging her to bed, and what faint comfort she found in assuring herself that he was not such a man vanished upon realizing that she could not say the same for Amrothos.

All day, she had carefully organized and delegated her activities so as not to cross paths with her husband or her all-too-perceptive son, and by a stroke of fortune she had not seen Gúthwyn either. But when she thought of Amrothos, and how tightly he had been gripping Gúthwyn's arm in the stables, she found herself telling Cwene to summon the king's sister.

She knew she had made a mistake the second Gúthwyn walked into the room. It was too much, the price she had paid for understanding what this woman had endured, what role Lothíriel had played in her suffering. Every last memory resurfaced, everything she wanted to forget, and there was a moment—only a moment—when she had thought about apologizing. But the words never came, because if they had Gúthwyn would have either spurned her or asked questions, neither of which she could bear.

Somehow, she managed to conclude the interview and dismiss Gúthwyn, praying that the other woman would attribute her momentary loss of composure to the mention of Amrothos. If she said anything to Éomer… but no, such thoughts could not be permitted to take root. Not when there was so much work to be done. She was a queen; these were her duties; and she would not allow herself to be distracted.

And yet.

She sampled the mead that would be served at the high table, and as its honeyed sweetness slid down her throat, she thought of how much worse Amrothos's drinking had become since his visit to Rohan—and how afterwards Gúthwyn had not been able to drink at all save through a straw, her bandaged wrists splayed awkwardly across the table.

She met with the cooks to agree upon a menu for the welcoming feast, and it occurred to her that she had missed every meal since lunch yesterday; yet the mere thought of food was nauseating, and she could not imagine when she might ever want to eat again. In this, too, she was reminded of Gúthwyn, bony fingers picking at bread crumbs, eyes downcast as Éomer pleaded with her to eat something else. In the spring of her betrothal to Elphir, she had all but disappeared—and that was when Lothíriel understood just how much she must have been dreading their wedding night.

She was still recovering from this unpleasant realization when she arrived at the stables to inspect the accommodations for their guests' mounts, and no sooner had she swung open the doors than all the memories came flooding back:

Gúthwyn between Amrothos and the wall, eyes shut, fists clenched—

Herself between Éomer and the sheets, eyes wide, wrists pinned—

Amrothos's hand sliding up Gúthwyn's shirt, demanding, taking—

Éomer's hand gliding down her robe, undoing, pausing—

The way Gúthwyn had doubled over, clutching her stomach—

The way she had felt afterwards—

"Queen Lothíriel?"

She was standing in the middle of the stables with no recollection of having walked so far inside; it was Gamling who had addressed her, his brow knotted with the caution of someone approaching a wild animal. He was less than a yard away and all she could think of was that she did not want him to come any closer.

"My lady? Are you feeling well?"

She stepped back, as much to put distance between them as to regain control of herself. "Excuse me, Gamling, I quite forgot what I came in here to do," said a voice that sounded nothing like her own. "I beg your pardon, how silly of me."

She was gone before Gamling could respond, the first breath of fresh air a welcome respite from the oppression of the stables. This was but a retreat, a regrouping of her strength; when next the memories came, she would be prepared for them and she would close her heart to their call. She would not think of what Amrothos had done to Gúthwyn, of what sort of a man this made him and what sort of a woman it made her for planning it; she would not wonder how Gúthwyn could stand to even look at her, let alone send her stories for Elfwine. And above all, she would not dwell on what had happened last night, when everything she thought she had known about her husband was lost. No, because there was no time. Guests were coming.

She was Lothíriel, queen of Rohan and princess of Dol Amroth. And let no one forget that she did her duty.

* * *

Éomer had not seen Lothíriel for three days.

Meduseld was not a great hall, and he would not have thought it possible to go for such a stretch of time without seeing the lowest-ranked maid, let alone his wife. But after that night, she vanished; there was only the occasional glimpse of her skirts sweeping around a corner, a rumor of her activities from servants scrambling to carry out her orders.

In her absence, guilt and relief warred within Éomer, neither emerging the clear victor. How could he face her now, knowing what he was capable of doing to her? Regardless of his intentions, regardless of all the ways in which she had betrayed their marriage vows, there could be no excusing his own actions. He had been so angry—she so obstinate—and the only thought in his mind had been to force her to understand what Gúthwyn had endured. It was not until he had completely overpowered her that he realized, too late, that he had just meted out a lesson he himself did not understand, and now neither of them could unlearn it.

And so he let her slip away, let her disappear into the shadows of his home. It was the right thing to do, he told himself—having terrorized her once, it would be reprehensible to cause her further distress by forcing a confrontation when she wished to avoid him. Instead, he sought daily audiences with Cwene, quizzing the woman about Lothíriel's movements as if he were merely concerned for her in the wake of Amrothos's illness.

"I am worried, my lord," Cwene admitted on the second day. "She does not complain, but she is working herself to the bone preparing for King Elessar's visit, and if she has slept more than a wink since her return, I would be surprised to hear it. And she does not touch half her food—it is like when Lady Gúthwyn used to be ill, my lord, she seems to have lost her appetite completely…"

Éomer felt rather like he was about to lose his appetite himself. It had taken him years to connect Gúthwyn's eating problems with her betrothal to Elphir, and yet longer to realize that it was, specifically, her dread of consummating the marriage. Now he had given his own wife cause to fear such intimacy.

"King Éomer…" Cwene's hesitation indicated an awareness of a line being approached. "Is there any comfort you can give her?"

Perhaps no other servant would have dared, in his presence, to allude to the troubles of the past four years; that Cwene had done so meant that her worry for Lothíriel had overridden her usual discretion. He wondered what she would say if he opened his mouth and told her that no, he could not give his wife comfort, because yesterday he had forced her onto their bed and made her believe that he was going to rape her. He thought she might not say anything—but from that day forward her allegiance would shift to Lothíriel, and her expression would be carefully blank whenever she looked at him.

It would have been no less than he deserved.

"My lord?"

"No," was all he could bring himself to admit. "I cannot."

Cwene was unable to disguise her disappointment, but she knew when not to linger in a conversation. They did not speak again until a day later, on the eve of the guests' arrivals; and by then she was sufficiently agitated as to hint that perhaps he might wish to reconsider. "I have begged her to rest, my lord, but she will not. She is bent on doing everything herself and refuses all offers of help. I even saw her dusting Queen Arwen's nightstand because she was convinced Elflede had missed a spot!"

Although Éomer had vowed not to impose himself on Lothíriel, Cwene's report was worrying, and in truth he had been growing steadily more uncertain about what might happen on the morrow. Lothíriel had been skirting him, and even Elfwine, with military-like efficiency, but he could not imagine her snubbing their guests in like fashion; nay, she would maintain the pretense of a cheerful, unencumbered hostess at all costs. Yet he, too, had to play his part, and sooner or later, no matter how much either of them wished otherwise, their paths would cross.

And what then? Éomer was ashamed to realize that he was afraid: afraid of how Lothíriel might react to being in the same room as him, afraid of what he might see reflected in her eyes. He wondered if this was the reason he had not tried to make amends sooner, rather than out of consideration for her feelings, and his self-loathing climbed to untold heights when he could not discern which had been the true motive.

It was no use; he had to talk to her. Not to beg forgiveness—he had no right to ask such a thing—but to determine whether it was even possible for them to make it through welcoming their guests tomorrow, let alone the rest of the visit. And were she not fully justified in never wanting to see him again, he thought Lothíriel would have agreed with the logic behind his intentions.

After parting ways with Cwene, Éomer began to place word with the other maids: the king was looking for the queen. Although he had every confidence in these messages being carried swiftly to Lothíriel, he was not expecting her to come to him—instead, she would choose their meeting place, and he would be the one who came to her. If having the advantage in this regard gave her any comfort, he would concede it gladly.

And so, when it was brought to his attention that Lothíriel had sequestered herself in her chambers, he made his approach. Unsurprisingly, the door was closed; he glanced around to make sure the corridor was free of servants before he raised his hand and knocked. "Lothíriel?"

It felt strange to even be saying his wife's name—a form of address that was his right as her husband, but which someone who had treated her the way he had surely did not deserve. He opened his mouth, changed his mind, and knocked again instead.

This time, there was an answer. It came while his hand was still on the door, as if it were a delayed response to his first knock. "You may come in."

Éomer's fingers hovered midair for a split second; then he curled them over the handle and swung the door inward, bracing himself for what lay beyond. The first thing he saw was the bed, its looming presence like an accusation. Averting his eyes, he looked to his left—and there she was, watching him from behind her desk, knuckles wrapped white around a quill.

She was wearing a dark grey gown he had not seen since the early days of their marriage. It was a rigid, uncompromising garment that buttoned so high up her neck he felt suffocated just looking at it; and he distinctly remembered complaining about how difficult it was to remove, after which it had disappeared from her usual rotation of outfits.

As the significance of this dawned on him, he realized he had known no greater disgrace than this, seeing what meager defenses his wife had constructed lest he attack her once more. He suppose that even her positioning behind the desk was not a coincidence: a large object between them, a few extra seconds she could use to escape.

He forced himself to meet her gaze, and his shame became a living, breathing thing that swept through his body before slinking into the pit of his stomach. Her eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, regarded him with the alertness of a small animal in the shadow of a predator; she looked as if she had not slept or eaten in weeks. He understood now why Cwene had been so concerned, and what was more, he understood that he was the cause, that Amrothos's illness had not done this to her.

For all the emotion Lothíriel must have felt upon seeing him, however, there was not a trace of it in her posture, which was stiff and straight in the manner of a queen granting an audience to a disliked visitor. Knowing that the last thing either of them needed was to be overheard, Éomer shut the door and took a few steps closer to the desk so they could speak in lowered voices. Yet Lothíriel flinched, and an involuntary cry escaped her lips.

"No!"

He jerked back as if scalded, too late realizing his mistake. "Lothíriel, I am so—"

"No," she repeated, her face white as snow. "Not—not now…"

He fell silent, uncertain if there was anything he could say or do without making things worse. It was plain that did not wish to hear his apologies, but then how could he bring up the matter of their guests without appearing indifferent to her suffering?

To his surprise, she solved the dilemma for him. "I assume you are here to discuss King Elessar and Princess Éowyn's arrivals tomorrow," she said, her voice composed once more.

"I…" Thrown off by the formality of her speech, Éomer struggled to regain his footing. "Yes, I thought—"

In a brisk, business-like manner belied only by the faintest tremor beneath her words, Lothíriel went on, "It would be best for this visit to run as smoothly as possible, without our guests becoming aware that anything is amiss. Therefore, I propose a truce between us for the duration of their stay. Would that be agreeable to you, my lord?"

It was more than he had dared to hope, but the way she had spoken—as if it were costing her every ounce of self-possession, as though with each passing second her nerves frayed just a little more—made it a bitter draught indeed.

"I also suggest," Lothíriel continued when he did not respond, "that although we remain civil to one another before company, we ought to limit our interactions, so long as we can do so without arousing suspicion. For instance, should you enter into discussion with King Elessar, I shall do likewise with Queen Arwen, and we need not join our conversations."

Éomer could not have said he was surprised—Lothíriel had always been one to consider all the angles—but the thought of her devising this plan, the knowledge of how desperately she needed to be in control at this moment, was a greater condemnation of his failures as a husband than anything else she could have said to him.

"Lothíriel—"

"Would that be agreeable to you?" she repeated.

He did not miss the panic that skittered across her features when she thought he was revisiting the subject of that night. He swiftly retreated, with no option left but to murmur, "As you wish."

"Very well." Lothíriel laid down her quill, then picked it up again when her fingers shook. "Goodnight."

Éomer did not move—aside from the fact that the hour of retirement was nowhere near, it felt wrong to leave her without at least attempting to make amends. But what could he do, when she did not want his apologies? How could he comfort her, when he was the one who had hurt her?

"Éomer." Lothíriel's voice was like thinning ice; one wrong step, and everything would shatter. "Please. Go."

He could not argue; he could not do anything, save for what she had asked. With a short nod, he backed away, then returned to the throne room as if in a dream.

"Éomer?"

He had almost run right into Gúthwyn, who was regarding him with concern. "Is something wrong? You have gone so pale—Éomer?"

For he had looked at her, remembering how shaken Lothíriel had been by his mere presence, and knowing with horrific certainty that this was how Gúthwyn had felt about Haldor; and he had almost been sick; and he had swallowed the bile in his throat and hugged her, pouring everything he could not say to Lothíriel into their embrace.

Gúthwyn hugged him back, uncertainly at first, but humoring him all the same. Glad she could not see his face, Éomer did his best to clear his expression, which somehow required a great deal of blinking.

"What is troubling you?" Gúthwyn asked once he felt it was safe to pull back. "Is it—is it something to do with Lothíriel?"

Her usual obliviousness would have served him better today. Instead, she had struck the mark, and to his amazement he heard himself confess, "I do not think our marriage will ever be the same as it once was."

Gúthwyn gazed at him with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. "Do you want it to be?"

"I…" He caught himself, remembering that Gúthwyn was the one who had paid the price for his "normal" marriage. "It does not matter," he said quickly. "After everything… we cannot go back."

"But you can go forward," Gúthwyn pointed out. "Éomer, believe me when I say this—I do not want to be the reason you are withholding forgiveness from Lothíriel, if you think anything else would be betraying me. I just want you and Elfwine to be happy, and I think we both know that some sort of reconciliation with Lothíriel is necessary for that. But if you want to love her again, then you have my blessing."

Her blue eyes scanned his, seeking a response, but he did not know what to say. She seemed to understand; instead of pressing him for answers, she hugged him again and murmured, "I know you will figure it out."

The moment was interrupted when Aldhelm, one of his councilors, came hurrying over, a thick scroll in his hands. With an encouraging smile, Gúthwyn took her leave, and Éomer submitted to a discussion about the latest progress reports from the Glittering Caves. Yet his mind was only half on Aldhelm's words, and as he asked himself what he wanted with Lothíriel, he realized he did not have an answer.


	20. Gathering Shadows

**A/N:** Happy Labor Day to my fellow Americans! I hope everyone's had a relaxing weekend. :)

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

June thirteenth arrived with clear skies and a light breeze, the kind of day on which anything seemed possible. But when Gúthwyn awoke, she paid little attention to the dazzling squares of light on her floor. Instead, she was filled with a terror so consuming that she could scarcely breathe: today, she would be seeing the children for the first time in months. Haiweth had at least kept in touch, her letters cheerful and brimming with the latest anecdotes about Gondorian society, but from Hammel there had only been silence.

Well, he would have to speak to her tomorrow, or at least listen—him and Haiweth both. Gúthwyn knew better than to even hope that they would accept her betrothal to Legolas, and part of her wished she had informed them by letter. But that would have been easy, not right; she would have to stand before them and face the consequences of her choices.

She still had no idea how to tell them—ever the words seemed to elude her grasp. Breaking the news gently seemed to be the best way of doing it, but every time she thought of how she might steer the conversation towards this announcement, she could only picture Hammel's face growing darker and darker until at last, with a tremendous thunderclap of rage, the storm broke upon her.

After lying there for several minutes with naught but an anxious buzzing in her mind, she had to admit defeat. Resolving to ask Cobryn and Legolas for their advice, she took a deep breath, threw back the covers, and prepared to face the day.

Out in the hall, she found Éomer, Elfwine, and Legolas enjoying breakfast. They were alone in their leisure—all around them, servants were hurrying to and fro, preparing for the guests' arrivals. As she crossed the room, she was nearly run over by Mildwen, who moaned a terrified apology before Cwene yelled at her to stop dawdling.

Gúthwyn gave the poor young woman an encouraging smile and proceeded to the table, where she made sure to sweep Elfwine into a hug and wish him a happy birthday.

"And it is your birthday, too, Auntie Gúthwyn!"

"It is," she acknowledged with rather less enthusiasm.

Legolas and Éomer both greeted her warmly. For a moment, she almost hoped Legolas would kiss her, but there was too much activity around them for this to be more than a fantasy.

 _How long has it been?_ she wondered as she took a seat next to him. It seemed like weeks had passed since their last furtive brushing of lips; certainly they had not properly kissed since his return.

Before she had time to feel disappointed, something small and light landed on her lap. Glancing down, she saw a drawstring pouch that was clearly not of Rohirric make—the quality of the fabric alone would have been a giveaway, even without the intricate, leaf-like pattern stitched along the bottom.

She threw a curious look at Legolas, whose eyes twinkled as he turned to her nephew. "Elfwine, are you looking forward to seeing your cousin again?"

While Elfwine was distracted, Gúthwyn tugged the pouch open and carefully slid its contents onto her dress. She caught a flash of something gold before it slipped into the valley between her legs, disappearing into the folds of her skirts. Still feigning interest in the conversation, she extricated the item and discovered a beautiful bracelet with delicate blue gems that seemed almost a perfect match for the ones in her necklace. She stared at it in amazement—surely it was too much, surely she would have to refuse it—before realizing that such a gift would not be considered untoward now that they were almost betrothed.

They were almost betrothed.

Gúthwyn could not have said why a bracelet of all things had suddenly made their engagement seem so real, but it had, and now her heart was pounding. Soon, tomorrow, they would make the announcement—and then they would no longer have to hide, or strategically spread out their picnics, or yank their hands back just in time. The whole world would know, and she could kiss him whenever she wanted.

And then, three months later, they would make their vows and seal the union.

A tendril of nausea swirled through her stomach when she thought of what lay ahead, but she tried to ignore it and focus on the bracelet. It was truly lovely, and she wished she could have donned it then and there. Instead, she stowed it safely back in the pouch and contented herself with running her fingers along the back of Legolas's hand.

He smiled, still looking at Elfwine, and she had to resist the temptation to touch him again, to enjoy once more the heat that their skin seemed to have produced. Reminding herself that they would have plenty of time to hold hands when they were betrothed, she glanced up, returning her attention to the table, and saw Éomer watching her.

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, although the glint in his eyes suggested he knew full well that some sort of exchange had just occurred. With a blush, Gúthwyn gave a quick shake of her head, trying to send a silent message: _Later._

For once, Elfwine was oblivious to the intrigues of the adults around him. "Papa, Auntie Gúthwyn, Leggy and I are going to go to the archery range and watch other people and take notes. Do you want to come with us?"

"Take notes? On parchment?" Éomer asked, amused.

"No, notes in our _head_ ," Elfwine said impatiently.

"I used to spend hours watching my father's soldiers practice and then trying to imitate their techniques," Legolas explained. "I thought Elfwine might benefit from similar research."

"You might find that there was more inspiration to be drawn from your father's soldiers," Éomer warned. "But Hunwald is one of our best, and there are a few others close behind him."

"But are you coming, Papa?"

"I will try to join you both later, but I have some business to—"

"Éomer?"

Even Legolas had not noticed Lothíriel's approach, so softly had the queen treaded. As they all turned to look at her, Gúthwyn saw that the circles under her eyes had not diminished, and her complexion remained alarmingly pale despite her noticeable attempts to improve it with powders.

"Lothíriel!" Éomer made as if to stand, but he reconsidered when she stiffened. "Do you need help with something? Is there anything I can do?"

Lothíriel answered him cordially, as if they had met once or twice and were not yet well-acquainted. "I was just wondering if you could speak to the stablehands about which stalls we are reserving for the visitors. I seem to have misplaced the paper on which I wrote down the arrangements."

"Yes, of course. I will do so at once," Éomer vowed.

"Thank you. I apologize for the inconvenience."

"No, it is not an inconvenience in the slightest."

"Mama, do you want to come with us?" Elfwine interjected. "Me and Leggy and maybe Auntie Gúthwyn are going to go to the archery range."

Lothíriel shook her head; she was already turning away from the table. "Thank you, Elfwine, but I have work to do," was all she said before disappearing.

Elfwine's brow furrowed as he watched his mother leave, but he was not alone in his confusion. Gúthwyn still had not been able to determine if Lothíriel's odd behavior over the past week was simply due to the stress of holding vigil at Amrothos's bedside, traveling, and then having to prepare for such a large number of guests, or if Éomer was to blame—for she suspected he had argued with Lothíriel upon her return, as if she would have been in any condition for another fight. Was that why he was tripping over himself to accommodate her, why he was treating her like some fragile thing that might shatter at any moment? Because he felt guilty?

She was still wondering when Éomer stood up. "If you will excuse me, I better get to the stables."

"But—"

"I am sorry, Elfwine, it will have to wait." And then Éomer, too, was gone.

Gúthwyn glanced at her nephew, who was biting his lip. "Well, little one," she said, trying to sound cheerful, "we had best be off as well. Perhaps even I can learn something from these archers."

Elfwine looked up at her. "Are you coming?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course. I would not miss it for the world."

Elfwine brightened upon hearing that, but when the three of them left the Golden Hall a few minutes later, Gúthwyn noticed him looking at the stables, as if he hoped his father would finish his errand in time to join them. To distract him, she asked, "How are you and Onyveth doing in your sword-fighting class?"

"She is very fast," Elfwine reported. "But a lot of the boys do not want to practice with her because she is a girl. They say she is weak and they will defeat her too easily."

"And do you believe that?"

Elfwine hesitated, then shook his head. "It is hard for me to beat her," he admitted. "And sometimes she even beats me."

"There is no shame in that," Gúthwyn assured him. "Your father and I have traded victories often enough when sparring. That does not make him any less formidable a warrior."

The mention of Éomer seemed to dim Elfwine's mood. "Onyveth's papa always comes to watch her," he said glumly. "How come my papa never does? Or Mama. Why does she not come?"

Gúthwyn's heart ached to hear her nephew so despondent. "Onyveth's father is not ruling a kingdom. He does not have as many demands upon his time as your parents. One day, little one, when you are the king, you will find that you are not always free to do what you want."

It was a gentle speech, yet it offered little in the way of comfort, and Elfwine's frown lingered. But then Legolas, who had been walking silently alongside them, cleared his throat. "Once I started training in earnest, my father stopped attending my archery lessons, saying that he was too busy. Many of my friends' parents would stop by to watch, even if only for a half hour, and every time I would search for my father among them, hoping that he would see all the work I had done and tell me how proud he was."

Elfwine was so spellbound by Legolas's story that he almost walked into a passing guard, and Gúthwyn just managed to steer him out of harm's way. Yet she, too, was listening closely, ever curious to learn more about Legolas's relationship with his father.

"It was not until I was older that I realized he had been receiving daily reports from my instructors the whole time, so he knew exactly how I was progressing in my lessons. And he was proud of me, though he did not show it."

"How come?" Elfwine asked, bewildered.

Legolas smiled softly at him. "Because it is different for kings and princes than it is for fathers and sons. A father's duty is to love his son, but a king must raise a future king. If my father had praised me too much, I would have grown overconfident; if he had attended all of my lessons, I would have become too reliant on his presence. And I was not just his son—I was a prince and the heir to his realm. He had to concern himself first and foremost with the kind of king I was to be."

Elfwine's brow wrinkled. "But your papa will live forever, so you do not have to be king."

"Alas, nothing is certain," Legolas replied. "My father became king when his father was slain in battle. He wanted to ensure that if his time ever came, I would be ready to lead our people in his stead.

"But with you, Elfwine"—and here Legolas stepped off the road and crouched down, so that the boy would pay close attention—"your father knows that one day you will succeed him. He has no choice but to prepare you for this role, even if he would rather only be your father. Because when you are the king of Rohan, your decisions will affect everyone, not just yourself, so it is very important that you grow up to be the best possible man you can be."

"But why can he not come to my lessons?" Elfwine asked in a small voice.

"Because if he did, you would be focusing on him and not on your training. And his presence would make the other children nervous, so that they would not want to try their hardest against you for fear of hurting you—or defeating you. Perhaps even your instructors would refrain from correcting your mistakes, lest your father take offense. If that were to happen, you would not be able to learn properly."

Elfwine was still frowning, but Gúthwyn could tell that he was considering Legolas's words, testing the logic of them in his young mind.

"He wants you to become your own man, Elfwine," Legolas murmured. "That does not mean he does not care."

"And he cares very much, little one," Gúthwyn added. "He and your mother both."

Elfwine's expression clouded. "They are fighting again," he said, and Gúthwyn knew he would not believe her if she denied it. "Mama is scared of him."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened—but she was the only one who had heard, for at that moment Balman leaned over the wall and hailed Legolas. "An Elf is here, my lord!"

"An Elf?" Gúthwyn echoed, glancing at Legolas. "Did you invite someone for the feast?"

"Maybe it is your papa!" Elfwine's gloom was dispelled in an instant, and his eyes shone as he peered towards the gates.

Legolas shook his head. "My father always travels with guards," he said, half to himself. "It cannot be him…" But Gúthwyn saw the faint stirrings of hope in his eyes, and without knowing who else this visitor might be, she too began to wonder. Had the Elvenking decided to come after all?

At a command from Balman, the gates began to open. The rider was not yet visible, and Gúthwyn's attention remained on Legolas. His movements had stilled, his muscles taut with anticipation.

 _Please be Thranduil,_ she thought, for Legolas's sake and Legolas's sake alone. _Please let him have changed his mind._

The sound of hooves met her ears a half-second before a dapple-grey horse rode through the gate, flames spilling down its sides. Then Gúthwyn blinked, and they were not flames after all, but hair.

"It is Tauriel!" Elfwine cried with delight.

She saw Legolas's features fill with disappointment before he mastered himself and called out to the Elven woman. " _Mae govannen_ , Tauriel."

Tauriel pulled up before them, grinning broadly, and dismounted with a lightness that Gúthwyn envied. " _Hîr nín_ Legolas," she answered, inclining her head before turning to Éomund's daughter. " _Hiril nín_ Gúthwyn."

Gúthwyn froze—what was she supposed to say in return? She did not think it would be right to call her _Lady_ Tauriel, but what if there was another title she was missing? Tauriel was to be the captain of her guard, but she did not know the Sindarin word for "captain."

"Tauriel," she finally said, after a pause long enough to make her look like an idiot. "It is a pleasure to see you again. I have much to thank you for."

Those bewitching eyes seemed to sparkle. "The pleasure—and the honor—is mine. Well met, Prince Elfwine."

"W-Well met, Princess Tauriel," Elfwine replied, only to redden when he realized his mistake. "I mean, Lady Tauriel…"

"I am not a lady," Tauriel corrected him gently, "but you are kind to think so, my lord."

Elfwine was blushing too hard to respond, and Legolas soon intervened. "We were not expecting you," he said to Tauriel, "but we are glad you have come."

"I thought someone should."

For a moment, Legolas looked past Tauriel, and such was the sadness in his gaze that Gúthwyn longed to reach out for him. But on a busy street, where more and more people were stopping to stare at the new visitor, she dared not.

"My father did not say anything?" Legolas asked, so quietly that Gúthwyn and Elfwine had to strain to hear him.

Tauriel gave an apologetic shake of her head. "He was preparing to leave for Dale when I departed. I am sorry."

"I see." Legolas had gone perfectly still. "Do you know if he will be here in September?"

"He has told me nothing of his plans," Tauriel said regretfully. "I wish I brought better tidings."

"Nay, my father alone is answerable for his decisions."

"Maybe it is like when you were little and your papa would not attend your archery lessons," Elfwine offered. "Maybe it is a test."

Tauriel looked at him in surprise, but Legolas managed a smile, albeit one that did not quite reach his eyes. "Perhaps you are right."

"Shall we go inside?" Gúthwyn asked, seeking a distraction. "We ought to let my brother know that you are here, Tauriel."

The others agreed, and they began to walk up the main road, Tauriel looking around in interest. "How long has this hall stood?" she inquired, her eyes drawn to its gleaming roof.

"Four hundred and sixty years," Elfwine said proudly before either Gúthwyn or Legolas could open their mouths. "It was built by King Brego, the second king of Rohan after Eorl."

"I see we have a scholar in our midst," Tauriel remarked, her eyes sparkling.

Elfwine was unable to come up with a response, which was most uncharacteristic of him, and Gúthwyn exchanged an amused glance with Legolas. Yet if the young prince of Rohan had been left dumbstruck by the beautiful Elvish visitor, he had plenty of company—for as they continued up the street, it became quite apparent that Tauriel's presence was causing a stir. Several men had stopped, mid-stride, to gape at her; the women were whispering amongst each other, darting envious glances at her hair.

None of this went unnoticed by the object of their amazement. "I would have thought Elves were no longer such a strange sight in Rohan," Tauriel said, glancing questioningly at Éomund's daughter.

"Well, they are used to Legolas," Gúthwyn pointed out, "but Queen Arwen is the only female Elf most of them have seen, and she is not here often. Plus, your hair is different."

"As is yours, my lady."

Gúthwyn laughed at that. Her dark hair may have been unusual for one of the Rohirrim, but it was no longer a novelty in Edoras. "Wait until you meet the queen. That is where this one gets his coloring." She put a hand on Elfwine's shoulder, which seemed to jolt him out of a trance—he had been following the _swish_ , _swish_ of Tauriel's hair and had evidently stopped paying attention to the conversation.

"Little one, it is not polite to stare," Gúthwyn whispered in Rohirric.

Elfwine gave a guilty start and managed, with some effort, to pull his gaze upward. Hastily changing the subject, he asked, "Do you think Leggy's papa will come?"

"I hope so. It would mean a lot to Legolas."

An understatement if there ever was one. Gúthwyn herself had little desire to encounter the proud Elvenking again, but Legolas's pain she felt as keenly as if it were her own, and she knew he was more upset than he let show. The story he had told Elfwine about his childhood came back to her then, of how all he had ever wanted was his father's approval, and it saddened her to realize that he was still waiting after all these years for that elusive sign of love.

And this story, she feared, was unlikely to have a happy ending.

* * *

As Gúthwyn and Elfwine spoke softly to one another in Rohirric, Tauriel bent her head towards Legolas. "I tried to convince him to come," she murmured. "I am sorry I could not."

"Nay, Tauriel, you are not to blame." The dull ache in Legolas's stomach seemed to worsen by the minute as he thought of those who _would_ be arriving that day: Aragorn, Gimli, Faramir, Éowyn, Hammel, and Haiweth. With the exception of the children, all were eager to wish him well, to witness the proclamation of his union with the woman he loved. Only his father had chosen to be absent.

In his heart, Legolas knew his mother would not have wanted this.

"The announcement will be made tonight?"

"Tomorrow," Legolas answered with a sigh.

Tauriel's brow furrowed, and she briefly paused her habitual scan of their surroundings to look at him, but he did not elaborate. Gúthwyn had been embarrassed to request the delay, and he knew without asking that she would not want Tauriel to hear about what she perceived as a weakness.

"The children will be here today," he said. "If you happen to enter into conversation with either of them, pray do not mention our betrothal just yet."

Tauriel almost stopped in her tracks. "They do not know?"

"She is telling them tomorrow. They have been away all spring, and she did not want them to find out by letter."

"And you do not think they should have been kept in the dark." As ever, Tauriel made quick guesswork of his expression.

"It is not the choice I would have made," Legolas said diplomatically. In fact, he felt certain that it was the wrong choice, though he could not imagine any circumstances under which the children—especially Hammel—would be accepting of the news.

"The girl seems reasonable," Tauriel remarked, "but there is something wrong with that boy. A darkness festers within him. I could sense it at the feast."

Legolas glanced back at Gúthwyn, but she was still chatting with Elfwine, who seemed to cast a longing glance at Tauriel every other second. "He is the one who concerns me. He has despised her for years, though I know not why."

Tauriel looked at him in astonishment. "And you wanted an extra guard to _protect_ him?"

"I wanted Gúthwyn to feel comfortable bringing the children to the colony. Yet I do not believe he will be joining us." Legolas could not tell if Gúthwyn had reached the same conclusion, or if she still held out hope that they might be reconciled. He hoped Hammel's time at Helm's Deep might have been preparing her for that day, whether it came tomorrow or at some point later in the future, when the two of them would part forever.

Haiweth, however, was the bigger question mark. He knew Gúthwyn would be devastated if she took her brother's side, if she was so repulsed by their betrothal that she too turned her back on Gúthwyn. It would be even worse if she then decided to remain with Éowyn and Faramir, for Legolas had deduced from occasional comments that Gúthwyn was jealous of the bond Haiweth and Éowyn shared, when she herself seemed so often at odds with the girl.

One way or another, it would all unfold tomorrow—but when Legolas tried to imagine the future, everything was dim, like shadows gathering slowly at the edges of a dying campfire.

* * *

 **Response to ks:** Yes, I will be explaining more about Haldor's background! Eventually...

 **Response to RP911:** I have to admit, it actually was a complete coincidence that Gamling happened to be in the stables with Lothíriel - but yes, I think he would have looked back on some of Gúthwyn's past behavior in a new light after discovering the truth.

Éomer was definitely wise to back off when he did - but you're right, sometimes avoiding the subject can cause even more troubles further down the line.

Haha, poor Gúthwyn... it's damned if you do, damned if you don't with Hammel! But it's been interesting having the chance to write scenes where she and Legolas aren't in agreement, and seeing how they navigate those discussions. There'll be more of those challenges ahead soon...


	21. Storm Clouds

**A/N:** One of these days I will stop writing chapters where visitors arrive and people wait on stairs to greet them, I promise.

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

It was mid-afternoon when the hosts of Emyn Arnen and Minas Tirith arrived, passing through the city gates in a long file of horses and riders. Since it had been several years since the White Lady of Rohan had returned to her home, and it was an even rarer occurrence to see King Elessar and his Elvish queen, nearly every resident of Edoras stopped what they were doing to watch the procession up the main road.

Gúthwyn and Cobryn stood above the crowds on the stairs to Meduseld. "Do you have any idea what I should say to the children?" she hissed at him as she spotted Haiweth riding beside Éowyn.

Cobryn lifted an eyebrow. "The truth?"

"For the Valar's sake, I know that! But how? How would you say it, if you were in my shoes?" In her desperation, Gúthwyn was all but begging him. There was so little time left—she was supposed to tell the children tomorrow—and she still had not found the words.

Cobryn regarded her with sympathy, but just when she thought he was going to rescue her, he shook his head. "Not here. Not now," he murmured, looking around at the servants. "Tomorrow morning, when everyone is recovering from the feast."

"First thing tomorrow morning," Gúthwyn insisted. "I promised Legolas I would not delay."

Cobryn did not respond, and she realized that his attention had been caught by something below. Following his gaze, she saw Faramir riding with Elboron, the latter staring in a sort of stunned dismay at his new surroundings.

"Oh, he must not like the crowds, poor thing," she said. Elfwine had always delighted in being around others—especially when he was the sole object of their attention—but Elboron had a quieter disposition, and right now he seemed to be quite overwhelmed by the cheerful chaos. "I do hope the journey was not too tiring for him."

"He has grown," Cobryn murmured, half to himself.

As it had been six months since their departure from Emyn Arnen, and Elboron was now an astonishing three years old—where had all that time gone?—Cobryn was right, but Gúthwyn was more interested in how her friend's voice had softened as he spoke, and she made a note to arrange for plenty of reading sessions with her nephew over the course of the visit.

As the guests dismounted and made their way up the stairs, Éomer welcomed them, genial and gracious. At his side, Lothíriel smiled but did not speak; and while one hand rested on Elfwine's shoulder, the other twitched at her skirts, as if she did not know what to do with it. Such were the distractions of the moment, however, that Gúthwyn thought she might have been the only one to notice this.

Yet she, too, forgot about the queen, for Haiweth had followed Éowyn and Faramir up the steps and was now waving in her direction. "Gúthwyn!" she called, edging through the crowd.

When at last they were reunited, Gúthwyn pulled her into a tight hug, as if by doing so she could ensure that they were never parted again. "I have missed you, little one," she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"I have missed you, too." Haiweth's words were sincere, and Gúthwyn could not help but feel relieved—she had wondered what kind of place she could hold in Haiweth's heart while the girl was in Éowyn's care, with all the temptations of Minas Tirith less than a day's ride away.

As they separated, she noticed that Haiweth was wearing a new riding dress, the fabric a beautiful forest green against which her hair gleamed like gold. _What was wrong with your old one?_ she thought, but she did not want to ruin the mood by asking.

Haiweth and Cobryn exchanged greetings; then Haiweth stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd. "Is Hammel here yet? He told me he was coming."

So Hammel could apparently manage to send a letter all the way to Emyn Arnen, but not to Edoras. _No, that is not true,_ she caught herself. _He writes to Aldeth. I am the only one he ignores._

Before she could tell Haiweth that Hammel would be arriving later that afternoon, a shadow drew over the girl's face like a curtain. "What is he doing here?" Haiweth asked stiffly, her eyes locked on someone over Gúthwyn's shoulder.

With a sinking feeling, Gúthwyn followed her gaze and saw Legolas, who was coming towards them. "He is visiting as well," she answered in Rohirric. "Éomer thought it would be nice if he were here for Elfwine's birthday celebration."

"And yours." It was half-statement, half-question, Haiweth's tone guarded. Gúthwyn did not have time to respond before Legolas reached them.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Haiweth," he said in a gentle way that made Gúthwyn love him even more. How he tried with the children, though they scorned him and shunned him!

"Good afternoon, Prince Legolas," Haiweth answered dutifully.

"I hope you are well?"

Haiweth's eyes darted away from them both, in search of someone who might rescue her. "Yes, thank you."

With a light, yet reproachful touch against Haiweth's elbow, Gúthwyn said, "Legolas has also been doing well."

Haiweth realized her mistake and blushed, muttering something that sounded like, "That is good to hear."

"Gúthwyn tells me that you were in Minas Tirith recently," Legolas persevered.

Haiweth had begun to frown at his words when something else caught her eye. "That woman is here," she said in surprise. "Tauriel."

From the way she suddenly colored, Gúthwyn guessed that Tauriel had noticed she was being observed. "Yes, she arrived with Legolas."

Haiweth's frown deepened, and for once she did not hesitate to address Legolas directly. "I thought she was the captain of your father's guard. Should she not be with him?"

"She is allowed to leave her post on occasion," Legolas said, his smile betraying none of the unease that Gúthwyn felt. Of all the things for Haiweth to remember… what if she next asked why Tauriel had come to Edoras?

But before further questions could arise, there were shouts from several of the onlookers still gathered in the streets, and a new group of riders appeared: the company from Helm's Deep. Gúthwyn's heart nearly failed her when she spotted Hammel amongst them, his eyes sweeping the crowd—likely for a glimpse of Aldeth. He had not yet trained his poisonous stare upon her, but that would come soon enough.

"I thought they were coming later!" Haiweth cried in delight. "Oh, excuse me—" And she was off, hurrying down the steps towards her brother.

"Shall I absent myself?" Legolas murmured, his voice barely audible over the general commotion.

"I cannot imagine he will be eager to greet me even if I am alone," Gúthwyn said with a sigh, "but I do suppose it would be better if he did not see us together just now."

"He will have to grow accustomed to the sight eventually." But Legolas was not of a mind to argue, and his remark was uttered as he withdrew. Gúthwyn let out a slow, unsteady breath and turned to observe Hammel and Haiweth's reunion, which was quite animated—although Haiweth was doing most of the talking. After a moment, she reached for her brother's arm and gestured towards the stairs, but Hammel shook his head, his eyes narrowing as they made the briefest of contact with Gúthwyn's.

Haiweth persisted, and there followed a short, heated discussion, at the end of which Hammel extricated himself from his sister and walked off in the direction of the blacksmith's. Haiweth watched him go, threw her hands up in the air, and stalked back to Gúthwyn. "I tried," she said, her features twisted in an awkward grimace. "But he wanted to see Aldeth first."

Gúthwyn forced a smile. "Well, I can understand that. Thank you for trying."

"He is very…" Haiweth hesitated, though only for a few seconds. "He is very unkind to you. I wish I knew why."

Gúthwyn might have hugged her, but then she would have started crying. If Hammel would not even say hello to her, how was she to pull him aside tomorrow, let alone tell him about her and Legolas?

"It is wonderful to see you, baby sister!"

She barely had time to hitch another smile on her face before Éowyn wrapped her into a tight hug, leaning close and whispering, "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied into Éowyn's shoulder, hoping beyond hope that Haiweth had not heard. "I can hardly believe it."

"You look much better." Éowyn's relief was evident as she gave Gúthwyn a thorough examination. "You were so unhappy before…"

Gúthwyn flushed. "Well, that is all in the past now." Turning to Haiweth and Faramir, who were both crouched to listen to Elboron's wide-eyed laments, she waved and said, "El, I am so glad you have come to visit us!"

Elboron regarded her with bewilderment. "Everyone talks different here," he announced, and then his face crumpled, providing only a few seconds' warning before he started to wail.

"It has been a rough journey for him," Faramir said, picking up Elboron and rubbing his back with a weary sort of patience. "He is not used to traveling so far."

Gúthwyn gave them a sympathetic look. "I am sure he will feel better once he has had some rest."

"So will we all," Éowyn said darkly, making Faramir laugh.

"Come, now, it has not been so terrible…"

Elboron blinked up at them, as if unable to comprehend how his parents could make light of his sorrows, and dissolved into tears once more.

"All right, Elboron, let us get you some food before naptime. How about that?" Faramir suggested. The only response was a low, drawn-out moan, which he evidently chose to interpret as a yes, and they began following the crowd indoors. Gúthwyn glanced back once, just once, and saw the back of Hammel's head as he spoke to a beaming Aldeth.

"Éomer said the announcement is not today," Éowyn whispered to Gúthwyn as they passed through the doors. "Why ever not?"

"Oh, well… we thought… well, I thought… perhaps it would be better timing. For Hammel and Haiweth," Gúthwyn stammered.

"Hm." Éowyn plainly did not believe her, but a glance over her shoulder at Haiweth and Faramir quelled the rest of her interrogation. "Lothíriel looks horrible," she said, changing the subject. "Faramir mentioned she was going to visit Amrothos—he did not die, did he?"

"No, it sounds like his condition has not changed. But she does seem…" Gúthwyn trailed off, not wanting to implicate Éomer. Now was not the moment for such a conversation.

Éowyn was quiet for a moment, then shrugged—Lothíriel's health was plainly of little consequence to her. "Well, baby sister," she said with more enthusiasm, "let us find Legolas, and then I want to hear everything about the night he came back. Have you given any consideration to your household?"

"Er, Legolas asked Tauriel to be the head of my guard," Gúthwyn replied quickly, trying to remember if any other decisions had been made. "And—oh! Cobryn is coming, too."

Éowyn's lips twitched in either amusement or exasperation. "I see we have some work ahead of us," was all she said.

* * *

Several hours later, two cloaked figures stood upon the landing, one shrouded in smoke, the other tall and still. Before them, Edoras and its surroundings gleamed silver in the moonlight, the distant mountains reaching up towards the stars. Behind, warmth and laughter spilled out of the open doors to Meduseld, and assorted groups of merrymakers were passing through to the feast within.

Aragorn lowered his pipe, expelling a stream of smoke into the air. "No sign of him?"

Startled, Legolas pulled his gaze away from the north. Aragorn was watching him compassionately, with no hint in his expression that he thought Legolas was a fool to still have hope.

"No," he admitted, his voice ringing hollow in his ears. "I expect he is having dinner in Dale by now."

"Perhaps he will come tomorrow."

Legolas shook his head—he knew Aragorn had spoken not because he believed what he was saying, but because he wished it for his friend's sake. "I told him it was tonight. He does not know it has changed."

Aragorn took a long drag from his pipe; the sound of his exhale was covered by a burst of laughter from passing revelers. "I am sorry, _mellon nín_ ," he murmured, briefly clasping Legolas's shoulders. "Your father is proud, and he grieves in his own manner."

"He grieves so much he would push me away."

"It is not logical," Aragorn agreed. "But neither is love."

Aragorn's words were reasonable, yet not enough to mend the hurt Legolas felt. On the one hand, he had never expected Thranduil to celebrate his betrothal… on the other, he could not imagine his father being absent on one of the most important days of his life.

"Has he said aught of the wedding?" Aragorn asked.

Another pang shot through Legolas's chest. "No, not a word."

Aragorn lowered his pipe and looked at him. "I will stand for you, if he will not," he vowed. "Tomorrow and in September, if need be."

Legolas did not think any language contained the words adequate enough to express his gratitude towards Aragorn in that moment, but he knew his friend did not need to hear them. "Thank you, Aragorn. The stars shone bright indeed upon our meeting." They clasped arms, and Legolas bowed his head close to Aragorn's, remembering how smooth the man's brow had been when they first met.

Aragorn, like Gúthwyn, would one day pass beyond his reach.

Such sorrow swept over him, he did not know what he would have done if a familiar roar had not blasted out into the night, interrupting the moment. "Aragorn! Legolas! Where have the two of you run off to? The ale is out!"

Legolas and Aragorn exchanged amused looks as Gimli appeared in the doorway, straining to see over a crowd of partygoers. "We are over here, my friend," Legolas called, saving him the trouble.

As the Dwarf hurried over, they saw that he was carrying two mugs in each hand, their contents sloshing over onto the flagstones.

The corners of Aragorn's mouth quirked. "Getting an early start?"

"So are you," Gimli replied, extending his arm and waiting for Aragorn to take one of the drinks. Then he turned to Legolas. "And especially you, laddie."

Legolas found himself smiling as he accepted the other mug.

"To Legolas!" Gimli crowd, raising the last two drinks he had reserved for himself. "And"—here he gave an exaggerated examination of their surroundings before dropping his voice to a soft boom—"to his charming lady friend."

They drank to his toast, Gimli finishing an entire mug in one go. Belching in satisfaction, he patted his beard dry and asked, "So where is she?"

"Getting ready for the feast," Legolas explained. Haiweth had gone with her, and he fervently hoped that Gúthwyn would reconsider and use the opportunity to tell the girl about their betrothal. His sense of foreboding had been growing all day, and Hammel's arrival had filled him with great unease. The boy had been polite enough under Éomer's watchful gaze when at last he reached the Golden Hall, but the air around him was thick with animosity, and Legolas did not like the way he had looked at Gúthwyn.

"I do not suppose Hammel has confided in you?" he said to Gimli.

Aware of what he was being asked, Gimli sighed and shook his head. "In all matters apart from blacksmithing, the lad keeps to himself. Trying to get information from him is like pulling teeth. But he gets a queer look in his eye if I mention Lady Gúthwyn, and there is ill will there, make no mistake."

"The lad is now a grown man," Aragorn pointed out. "It would be better for everyone involved if he found his own way. Gimli is right—I do not think Gúthwyn perceives the depths of his hatred for her. And you, my friend," he added, his eyes fixing upon Legolas, "I would keep a close watch on him, if I were you."

Legolas nodded. He hoped that would not be necessary tonight—Aldeth had passed by a few minutes ago, her cheeks flushed as she entered the Golden Hall, and with any luck her presence would be a distraction for Hammel. But tomorrow… he could not guess what would happen.

Sensing that Legolas was too troubled to reply, Aragorn bowed his head. "The feast will be starting soon. Shall we go inside?"

As the three of them passed into the warmth of the Golden Hall, the moon above slid behind a cloud, and Rohan was swathed in darkness.


	22. The Feast Begins

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Gúthwyn changed quickly for the feast, donning a simple grey gown, and then headed over to Haiweth's room. She was hoping the girl would be alone, without Éowyn usurping the role of her caretaker, and in this she was not disappointed. When she knocked and was given permission to enter, she found Haiweth brushing her hair before the mirror, sending rivers of gold cascading down the blue fabric of her dress.

"You look pretty, little one."

"Thank you." Haiweth's eyes met hers in the mirror. "So do you," she added after a moment, in which her gaze flicked over the grey gown in a way that seemed to suggest she thought the outfit lacking.

Gúthwyn had spent years weighing Haiweth's regard for her against the girl's admiration for Éowyn and Arwen. Now arose a question that would not be ignored: if she, Éowyn, and Arwen were to stand in a row, whom would Haiweth consider the most beautiful? And the next, and the least?

 _She would choose Arwen,_ she thought with grim certainty. _Then Éowyn—no. Then Tauriel, for her hair. Then Éowyn. Then me._

And with the exception of Tauriel, Gúthwyn was convinced that the others would outrank her in Haiweth's heart as well.

 _I have lost both of the children._

"Gúthwyn? Is something wrong?"

Blinking, Gúthwyn realized that she was still staring at Haiweth's reflection. "No, nothing is wrong," she said, perhaps too swiftly.

Haiweth nodded, but her expression had shuttered, as if she did not believe Gúthwyn yet had not found it worth the trouble to make further inquiries.

"Do you want help with your hair?" Gúthwyn finally asked, seizing upon the closest source of distraction.

"No, thank you. I am almost done."

There was another uncomfortable pause, and Gúthwyn's first instinct was to retreat. She had already caused enough damage, and she did not want to make things worse before she had to tell the girl about Legolas. Yes, perhaps it would be better to let well enough alone for now.

 _Are you going to give up so easily?_ a stubborn part of her demanded. _Is this what you have become?_

She remembered why she had made her visit in the first place, and with this in mind she said, "Well, we have some time before dinner. You can tell me about your trip to Minas Tirith."

"It was good." Gúthwyn could practically see Haiweth sorting through her memories, picking and choosing which ones to share. She wondered what would be omitted, either on purpose or because it had happened so long ago, in between letters, that Haiweth had forgotten it. No doubt Éowyn had been told everything. "I have gotten better at drawing the White Tree, but I still cannot get it quite right. So I drew Elboron again, and then he started stealing Faramir's quills so he could draw, too."

Gúthwyn smiled at that, imagining the havoc her nephew must have wreaked upon his father's study. "Perhaps you can teach him when he is older."

"I have been teaching Aeluin," Haiweth said, referring to the daughter of a merchant family who, like Haiweth, was disdained by the rest of Arwen's handmaidens. "Her father taught her how to read and write, but he says that drawing is a waste of time."

Gúthwyn supposed she could understand why a merchant would consider such a skill impractical, but she was not about to stand in the way of Haiweth's indignation. "It is good of you to help her. I am no expert, but I believe some sort of proficiency in the arts is desirable for a Gondorian lady. I am sure most of the girls your age have some skill at it."

Haiweth wrinkled her nose. "They all look down on Aeluin for not knowing how, but none of their drawings are very good. And they always pick flowers as their subjects, never anything interesting! Well, flowers are interesting," she relented, "but not when they are all you ever draw."

"They must not have your talent," Gúthwyn said with a smile.

Haiweth smiled back, but only briefly. "Did I tell you in my last letter that Nindriel is betrothed?"

"No, you did not—who is the victim?" Gúthwyn had crossed paths with Arwen's haughty handmaiden on few occasions, but she had heard enough from Haiweth to know that Nindriel was a lady in only the nominal sense of the word.

"Lord Anunir." Haiweth's voice dripped with disdain. "She will talk of nothing else but him. 'Lord Anunir says this,' 'Lord Anunir says that,' 'Look at what Lord Anunir bought me yesterday!' She acts as though she is so superior to us all because she is the first one to get married. And the other girls practically fawn over her for it."

Gúthwyn's amusement faded as she listened. Haiweth was hiding it well, but there was an unmistakable current of jealousy running beneath her scorn, and her irritation seemed to have less to do with Nindriel's gloating than her impending nuptials.

 _She is eighteen now,_ she could almost hear Cobryn saying. _Old enough to start thinking about her future. Old enough to start thinking about a husband._

And she wondered about Talathdil, whose name had been conspicuously absent from every one of Haiweth's letters…

But Talathdil was perhaps the most dangerous of all the subjects Gúthwyn needed to avoid if she wanted Haiweth to be in a forgiving mood on the morrow. "Well," she said, forcing a smile, "Nindriel will not be the only one for long. Once the next girl is betrothed, her situation will not seem so special."

Haiweth nodded, and for a moment her eyes had the faraway look of a girl imagining her own marriage. Then she caught herself and started brushing her hair again, even though it had already been arranged to perfection.

Gúthwyn did not comment; her pulse was quickening as she realized, thanks to the direction their conversation had turned, how natural it would be to say something about her impending betrothal to Legolas. Perhaps it would even be better this way—her and Haiweth alone, without Hammel around to fly into a rage or otherwise make it impossible for her to observe the girl's reaction.

But the words never came, and the opportunity was lost when Haiweth cleared her throat and suggested that they go to dinner. Gúthwyn agreed, feeling more relief than regret, and followed Haiweth out of the room. As they crossed the threshold, however, a sudden sense of misgiving seized her. Before she had time to reconsider, she reached out and grabbed Haiweth's arm.

Haiweth looked back at her in confusion. "What?"

Gúthwyn's throat had gone dry, and she wavered, uncertain. Her fears about June thirteenth had suddenly resurfaced, and for a moment she was frozen, unable to make a decision.

"Gúthwyn?"

 _Just tell her! Now!_ a voice screamed.

 _Not today,_ another voice warned.

Gúthwyn's heart was beating so frantically, she would not have been surprised if Haiweth could hear it. "I have some news for you and your brother. I thought… perhaps we could talk before breakfast tomorrow."

"What news?" By now, Haiweth had stopped in her tracks and was regarding Gúthwyn with wary curiosity. "What has happened?"

"Tomorrow," Gúthwyn repeated as her adrenaline began to fade. "It will be easier to talk without the distractions of a feast."

"But there is going to be another feast tomorrow," Haiweth pointed out. "I heard some of the servants talking about it."

"Well, we will be talking in the morning, so it will not matter." Lest Haiweth think to ask what the feast in question was celebrating, Gúthwyn released her and said, "We ought to hurry, or we will be late."

By which she really meant that the subject was closed, not that they were actually running late. Haiweth gave Gúthwyn one last searching look as they started walking again, but fortunately the noise from the throne room proved a hindrance to further conversation. And once they were inside the hall, Haiweth became distracted by Tauriel's presence at Éomer's table. "How is her hair so perfect?" Gúthwyn heard her muttering to herself as she cast a disparaging glance at her own gleaming curls.

Although amused by Haiweth's perturbation, Gúthwyn did not respond, for Legolas was sitting right beside Tauriel. As he chatted with her, his eyes found Gúthwyn's, and the way he looked at her—even when she was wearing grey, even when his companion was far more beautiful—stole all the breath from her lungs.

The humming throng seemed to part before her like grass in the wind, and she moved towards Legolas, scarcely aware of Haiweth at her side. There was an empty seat across from him, and she knew without asking that it was hers, that from now on she would always be near him no matter where they dined.

The thought gave her such pleasure, she neglected to greet Éowyn and Gimli, who were seated upon her left and right; luckily, neither of them noticed her inattentiveness, for Éowyn was leaning across the table to resolve some sort of food-related dispute between Elboron and Faramir, and Gimli was busy acquainting himself with a generous mug of ale.

"Good evening," she said to her future husband, wondering how such ordinary words could manage to sound so significant when they were addressed to him.

"Good evening," Legolas answered. She suspected that he had only just managed to subdue the impulse to stand in her presence, and a similar fleeting movement from Tauriel's direction made her realize, with some astonishment, that at least one Elf had accepted her as their princess.

Legolas's eyes darted further down the table, to where Haiweth was seated on the other side of Gimli. His greeting to her was perfectly audible over the noise of the crowd, but Haiweth's response was so soft that Gúthwyn was not in fact certain that she had said anything.

 _Well,_ she thought with a sigh, _there will be plenty of time for her to grow more comfortable with him over the summer._

Legolas, however, was not so easily deterred, and he made a second attempt at conversation. "Haiweth, I believe you have not yet been properly introduced to Tauriel, the captain of my father's guard. She will be visiting the colony later, so she has accompanied me here tonight."

"I-I have seen you," Haiweth stammered, flushing at her breathless speech. "I-I mean, I saw you at the feast last year. Two years ago. But we have not spoken."

Gúthwyn fought valiantly not to smile—between Elfwine and Haiweth, Tauriel was accumulating quite a gaggle of mortal admirers. She could sense Legolas looking at her, no doubt sharing the same thoughts, but she knew that if their eyes met she would not be able to contain her laughter.

"Yes, I remember seeing you with Lady Gúthwyn," Tauriel replied, giving no hint that she had noticed anything amiss in Haiweth's greeting. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I hear that you are quite talented at drawing."

Haiweth could not avoid darting a suspicious glance at Legolas, but Tauriel's praise was too great a power to resist, and her cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red as she mumbled her thanks. Gúthwyn beamed at Legolas—she had never discussed Haiweth's pastimes with Tauriel, so he must have been the one to say something, knowing it would please Haiweth to be complimented by someone she so greatly esteemed.

 _He truly is perfect,_ she marveled to herself.

There came a slight cough from somewhere near Tauriel, an unobtrusive sound that was nevertheless intended to get her attention. Glancing over, she saw Cobryn watching her, a smirk on his lips and a warning in his eyes—she must have been staring at Legolas like an idiot. _Anyone can see you._

She made a face at him, but he was right. Even now, so close to announcing her betrothal to Legolas, discretion was still necessary, albeit increasingly undesirable. It had been weeks since their last kiss, a hasty brushing of lips in an empty corridor, both of them listening for the sound of footsteps and ready to leap apart at a second's notice. And as for the last time they had truly, properly kissed… that had been the night of his return, nearly three months ago.

Her lips ached at the memory. In a futile effort to distract herself, she surveyed the rest of the table, trying to ignore the steady pulse of desire in her stomach. Legolas must have seen her blush, for he grinned as he turned to speak to Tauriel. The sound of his voice tugged at her, like the incoming tide against a small boat struggling to leave the shore; even though he spoke in Sindarin and she could not understand him, it still required a great deal of effort to look elsewhere.

She searched for Elfwine, hoping he could provide some form of rescue. Alas, her nephew was sandwiched between his father and mother at the head of the table, an awkward arrangement in which both parents seemed to be treating their son as a towering wall that made any dialogue between them impossible. They maintained separate conversations with their guests, leaving poor Elfwine quite uncertain of where to direct his attention.

Éomer and Aragorn were discussing a project of sorts, in which the latter was sending surveyors out to an old city—Annúminas, Gúthwyn thought he might have said, though the name did not sound familiar. "If all goes well," he told her brother, "the first families will be settled by this time next year. Long have I desired to begin the restoration of Arnor."

Across the table, Lothíriel was turning her charm on Arwen and Faramir, the three of them debating Gondorian politics. Not once did the queen look at her husband, just as he did not look at her, and for all the world it appeared as if they were engrossed in their separate conversations. Yet whenever the groups seemed about to merge—Arwen asking Aragorn to verify the number of votes by which a resolution had passed, Éowyn suggesting to Faramir that some in Emyn Arnen might be interested in moving west—their hosts discreetly steered them apart again.

Gúthwyn sighed. She still did not know what had possessed Éomer to quarrel with Lothíriel after her return from Dol Amroth, especially since she had been under the impression that their relationship was mending. Yet she was certain that Aragorn and Arwen had also noticed that something was amiss, though they were too polite to comment on it; at one point, she saw them exchange a glance as Lothíriel thwarted another attempt to unite the groups.

On her other side, Gimli was assuring Haiweth that sleeping in a cave was not as dismal as it sounded. "We have beds, of course, with fine mattresses and thick blankets—ours are civilized caves, not dank and dark holes where it is impossible to get comfortable! You can ask your brother, he has spent several nights in our lodgings."

"He has?" Haiweth asked curiously. Not wanting to miss anything, Gúthwyn leaned closer to listen. "Why?"

"The lad works long hours," Gimli explained, his voice rumbling with approval. "If I did not tell him to stop, he would keep going until the next day—and often it is so late when he finishes, he does not want to return to the fortress."

Haiweth's expression suggested that she did not remotely understand her brother, but if sleeping in caves was what made him happy, then so be it. "He says you and the other Dwarves have been very generous to him," she remarked. "He says he has learned a great deal."

Gúthwyn supposed this was what Hammel wrote in the letters that he never sent to her; she was saddened to hear Haiweth and Gimli speaking of him with the knowledge of close confidantes, while she had to eavesdrop on their conversation for mere scraps of information. Then it occurred to her that she had not seen Hammel since his arrival, and he did not even appear to be at the table.

Had Lothíriel neglected to give him a seat? Or was he so bent on avoiding Gúthwyn that he had distanced himself on purpose? She looked around the room, growing more and more anxious when she could not find him, only for her eyes to at last snag upon Aldeth's familiar figure. Sure enough, there he was on the bench beside her.

Theirs was a raucous, youthful table, but Hammel and Aldeth were not paying the slightest bit of attention to their companions. They spoke quietly, their heads bent together so they could hear one another over the clamor, and Gúthwyn knew that the glow in Aldeth's cheeks had little to do with the warmth of the hall. As she watched, Aldeth reached over to cover his hand with hers—and Hammel tensed, but not in anger, and after a moment he relaxed enough to interlace their fingers.

All of a sudden, she had the peculiar sense that she herself was being observed, and she turned to see Legolas watching her. "Hammel," she said by way of explanation, and his eyes filled with understanding. "He is not sitting with us like he usually does—he has gone to Aldeth."

Upon hearing this, Haiweth immediately swung around to search for her brother. When she spotted him, her face lit with glee. "If you will excuse me," she said to no one in particular, nearly throwing herself out of her seat in her eagerness to descend upon the couple.

"So that is the lass, eh?" Gimli, too, had turned around to see what was captivating his neighbors.

"Yes, that is Aldeth," Gúthwyn said. Looking back, she saw that Haiweth's appearance had startled the couple, who drew guiltily apart—Hammel annoyed, Aldeth apprehensive. But Haiweth's welcoming smile soon set the other girl at ease, and when Hammel saw that his sister had not come to tease him, his scowl faded.

Gúthwyn did not begrudge Haiweth her ability to have a normal conversation with Hammel, but observing them now was a painful reminder of what she had lost. And tomorrow, when she told them about her betrothal to Legolas, the distance between them would only grow.

She turned back to the table, where an abundance of food lay before her, and found that she had lost all her appetite.


	23. Hammel

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"Your sister seems very kind," Aldeth remarked as Haiweth returned to the king's table.

Hammel did not answer right away—one of the young men at their table, Freca, was watching Haiweth depart, his eyes lingering on the back of her dress. Hammel waited until Freca realized he was being observed, then simply looked at him and imagined snapping his neck in two.

It was like lifting a curtain, but only by a few inches—most people, when they caught a glimpse of what lay behind, had no desire to probe further. Freca was not blind, and he suddenly recalled somewhere else he had to be.

"She has been wanting to see you again," he told Aldeth, with one last glance to make sure Freca was gone.

Aldeth blushed, the sight of which did something strange to his pulse. "I am sure she was more interested in seeing you. It has been months since the two of you were together."

"Six months," Hammel said, surprised by how long it had been. It was the first time he and Haiweth had ever lived apart, and he missed her, but not as much as he had expected. Judging by her letters, she felt the same way—Gondor was keeping her busy, and she was not a child anymore. Neither of them were.

"And she has not been here in… almost four years?" Aldeth guessed. The light from the nearby torches caught upon her collarbone, distracting him. "She is so beautiful now!"

As she spoke, her brown eyes regarded him, and he felt his stomach twisting in ways that were both pleasant and excruciating. He longed to say that she was beautiful, too, but he did not know how—none of his books had prepared him for this, and without their guidance he was hopelessly adrift.

He loved her. And he thought… he hoped she loved him back. But if she did, she loved only that part of him which was acceptable to others. Somehow, whenever he was in her presence, everything that was wrong with him managed to scuttle out of sight just before she could perceive it. She was always a heartbeat away from discovering that ugliness, and if one day it was too slow to conceal itself, he would be laid bare before her.

And she would run.

He could not let that happen. He had to be someone she trusted, someone who would not frighten her. A good man, whatever that meant, for Hammel did not know many good men. Yet that was what Aldeth deserved, for she was perfect—a flower that had flourished despite the frost in his heart, something green that had managed to grow in the choking ashes of a barren wasteland.

"Hammel?"

Cursing himself for his inattentiveness, he hastened to answer Aldeth. "Yes, four years sounds right." Looking directly at her, he added, "Four very long years."

Four years of nothing but letters, those pitiful cages for all the hopes inscribed within. Four years of nights spent dreaming about her, days spent planning what he would say to her father. He had wanted to speak to Magar as soon as he returned to Edoras, but Aldeth had counselled him to wait, saying it would be better if he took the time to show her father the man he had become. Then Gimli's invitation had arrived, and she had urged him to accept, saying that this was honorable work and would count in his favor.

Part of him had feared that she was stalling because she did not truly want to be with him, but then he reminded himself that she had waited so long for him already, and she could easily have sought other offers if she had been inclined. Besides, she spoke with reason—Magar had never warned him away from Aldeth, but he had also made it clear that his daughter would not be settling for just anyone. Hammel was determined to prove himself, and he knew that an apprenticeship with Dwarves was one of the few things that would impress Magar.

And now he had returned. He still would not presume to call himself Magar's equal—only a fool would make that boast—but he had learned more from the Dwarves in three months than he could have learned from most mortal craftsmen in three years. The heat of the furnace was now nothing to him; the ash and soot and sweat barely registered. All that mattered was the ringing of hammer against steel, the numbing repetition of striking and turning and striking and turning. In those moments he thought of nothing but the work in his hands, and the ugliness was kept at bay.

"I think…" Aldeth sounded unsure of herself at first, but when Hammel nodded at her, she plunged ahead. "I think it is time to speak to my father."

He scrutinized every inch of her face to make sure that she was not teasing him, that there was nothing mocking in her expression. But her countenance was clear, and she was flushed with excitement. For a moment, time itself seemed suspended in the air between them.

"When?" he managed to ask.

Aldeth beamed; he did not know what he had done to deserve her. "Whenever you are ready."

Now. He was ready now—

"Although perhaps you will want to talk to Gúthwyn first?" Aldeth suggested, looking inquiringly at him.

At the thought of _her_ , the darkness returned, and so did the ugliness. He turned, in theory searching for her at the king's table, but in truth he did not want Aldeth to see his expression. _She_ was sitting with her back to him, next to Gimli, chatting with _it_. The darkness inside him howled for vengeance, for death. It and her, the smiles wiped from their faces, their skulls bashed in. It with a knife in its stomach. Her with his handprints black and blue on her throat. Both of them, gone.

He forced himself to take deep breaths. At length the darkness subsided, but this was only temporary. It would return—it always did. And with it came thoughts that should have horrified him, that would have horrified anyone else if they ever found out. But the darkness hid something else, something even worse, so he welcomed its embrace.

"No, there is no need for that," he said, turning back to Aldeth. "I will speak to your father."

Aldeth smiled, but questions lingered in her gaze. "Have you told her already? I can never tell when I talk to her—"

"You talk to her?" Hammel asked, more sharply than he had intended.

Misinterpreting his alarm, Aldeth assured him that she had not said anything about their plans. "But sometimes I run into her on the street, and she is always so kind to me. Of course, she is kind to everyone, but she goes out of her way to ask how I am doing."

 _I bet she does,_ Hammel thought, his anger rising. _She has just enough wit to use Aldeth to spy on me—or to listen to Cobryn when he suggested it._ Yes, this had Cobryn's signature all over it. To think Hammel had once looked up to the man, had even considered him a father figure! But Cobryn's loyalty was to _her_ —he had made that perfectly clear.

Aldeth was still talking. "I even invited her to lunch once, when I saw her talking to my father in the forge, but she could not join us that day—maybe once you have spoken to my father I could prepare something…"

Hammel's head was spinning as he tried to make sense of it all. Gúthwyn had sought out Magar—why? To ask about him and Aldeth? What had Magar told her? _It is none of her business,_ he thought furiously. _She has no right—she should know by now that I want nothing to do with her._

Worse, however, were her designs on Aldeth, because it was clear they were working. Aldeth sounded flattered by her attention, and why would she not be? Anyone who did not believe the rumors about Gúthwyn seemed determined to compensate for them by thinking she could do no wrong. If they had any idea… if they saw what was really there…

But he could not tell them, because that would mean talking about Mordor.

About what had happened before the darkness came and took everything away.

"Hammel?"

He wanted to scream. He wanted to take this table and knock it over, pinning everyone on the other side to the ground, and one by one slit their throats with the first knife he could find. Then he would turn to _her_ , and _it_ , and anyone who tried to stop him would die along with them…

"Hammel? Are you feeling well?"

A hand touched his forehead, its coolness like a slap. Without thinking, Hammel jerked back, only to realize that it was Aldeth.

"I-I am sorry," he said, for she was looking at him as if he had hurt her, and he would never do that. Ever. She had startled him, that was all. Sometimes she touched him when he was not expecting it, and he had to remember not to flinch, because that was not what you were supposed to do when the woman you loved touched you. He had forgotten just now, and he could not let it happen again. "I am tired. It has been a long day."

Aldeth's troubled expression smoothed away, replaced by understanding. "Let us talk tomorrow, then. Tonight we can just enjoy ourselves."

It was a promising suggestion, and he smiled, the tension in his chest easing. He had much to tell her about his time at Helm's Deep, and he wanted to hear all about what she had been doing in his absence. Perhaps later he would ask her to walk with him outside, away from the crowded hall, and at the right moment he would take her hand in his…

Raucous, high-pitched laughter burst in his ears. "Aldeth!" called one of her friends, who had clearly overindulged in drink. "Come, you must dance with us!"

"Both of you," her more sober companion amended, looking at Hammel. Her tone was polite yet insincere; he knew she did not really want him there. None of Aldeth's friends liked him, though some made more of an effort to conceal their distaste than others.

"Go ahead," he told Aldeth, who looked torn. What she saw in those girls he would never understand, but they had all known each other since childhood, so he supposed she made allowances for their deficiencies.

"Come with us," she urged him, touching his arm. Again he was caught between a shiver and a shudder, and he wished he could rip himself in two and throw away the part of him that shrank from her.

"Go ahead," he repeated with an encouraging smile. "I will watch."

"Are you sure?" Aldeth's friends were already pulling her away, but she resisted, still hoping to convince him. "I can show you the steps if you do not know this one!"

He almost laughed, recalling his previous attempts to impress her by teaching himself how to dance. He had learned enough to avoid looking like a complete idiot, but the popular dances were always changing, and he could never keep up.

"I am sure," he told Aldeth. "I might walk around for a while, but I will come back."

Aldeth looked reluctant to leave him, but her friends dragged her away, plainly hoping neither of them would have the chance to change their mind. Hammel watched them go, Aldeth turning her head to whisper _Sorry_ at him before she vanished into the crowd.

Since he had no interest in conversing with anyone else at their table, he drained his mug and left it behind. He began to make a circuit of the hall, passing unnoticed through the noisy press, keeping an eye on Aldeth as he walked. She appeared to be enjoying herself, but every so often she could crane her neck to scan the room, and he could tell she was looking for him.

He still did not know why she had chosen him, why she was willing to tie her fate to his. Had she seen something inside of him that made her think he was worthy? Some small, unnoticed part that had not yet been tainted? For years now, he had felt himself being consumed by a monstrous, snarling rage that only abated when he read, worked, or thought of Aldeth—and lately it seemed to be getting worse. Could there be anything left for her to love?

He could not help it: his eyes were instinctively drawn to _her_ , the reason for his torment. She was still at the king's table, and her back was to him, yet somehow he could have sworn he heard her grating laughter as she spoke to _it_. With clenched fists, he imagined coming up behind her, twisting her long hair around his fingers, and yanking her right out of her chair. She would be screaming and begging him to stop and he would not listen; he would punish her for what had happened in Mordor. He would break every single one of her bones and rip her insides out until she understood what it was like to feel so much pain she wanted to die.

Somehow, she did not sense that someone was watching her and planning her demise; she continued chatting away with it as merrily as if she had forgotten everything. As if Mordor had never happened. As if Hammel had not seen them together, her and It, that night in Its tent. Her _enjoying_ what It was doing to her.

When he was younger, he had given serious consideration to the matter, and he had come to accept that it and It were two different people. That the it who was a prince and who was friends with Lord Gimli and King Elessar could not, logically speaking, have been the same It who lived in Mordor and served the Dark Lord. But that did not mean that it could be trusted, or that it was not dangerous—and yet he and Haiweth seemed to be the only ones who could see that. _She_ was blind; she deserved whatever it did to her.

Maybe it would kill her for him.

Maybe then the noise in his head would stop.

"Hammel!"

A familiar roar jolted him from his thoughts, and he tried not to wince. "Good evening, Lord Gimli."

"You are a hard man to track down," Gimli remarked, offering him another mug. Hammel accepted it with a nod of thanks. "How come you are not at the king's table?"

Hammel gave a sour sort of shrug, which Gimli interpreted well enough. "Ah," he said, glancing at her and it. He did not press the subject, however; Hammel had proven thoroughly resistant to all his inquiries in that regard, and the Dwarf had made the wise decision to let sleeping dogs lie.

"And where is Aldeth?" Gimli asked after a moment.

Hammel tilted his head in her direction. "Dancing."

"And you are not with her?"

"She is with her friends."

"All the more reason to join her," Gimli argued. "If they are important to her, you ought to get to know them." When Hammel did not answer, he sighed, and his voice became gentler. "I worry for you, lad. You spend far too much time down in the caves. Lord Erkenbrand and Lord Tun say you have turned down nearly all their invitations to dinner."

Hammel barely managed to repress a snort. He could imagine few things less pleasant than dining with someone who was still in love with _her_ , amusing though it was to watch Tun strain to make his inquiries about her sound casual while Brithwen sat right next to him.

"They are your people, Hammel," Gimli reminded him. "You cannot hide from them forever."

"I am not hiding," Hammel snapped. "I prefer the company of your people. That is all."

Gimli raised a bushy eyebrow. "You often seem to prefer no company."

He was starting to get a headache, which had been happening more and more often lately. Why could Gimli not leave him be? Had _she_ put him up to this? Why was everyone always prying into his affairs?

"I do not see what your point is," he said harshly.

"My point is that you did not pick the right woman for a quiet confinement in the caves." Gimli's eyes darted to Aldeth, who was laughing at something her friend had said. "If she comes to Helm's Deep, she will feel more at home in the fortress, I can assure you. I hope for her sake—and yours—that you are ready to re-enter society. It will do you good."

The advice was well-intentioned, but Gimli could not have been more wrong. What use was living among people who only saw _her_ when they looked at him? No, not just her—they saw her disgrace, or what they imagined of it, not knowing that the truth was worse than anything their pathetic minds could have conjured.

In the caves, however, no one cared. Half of the Dwarves were unaware of his connections—they just assumed he was one of the men who occasionally descended to learn their craft. Those closer to Gimli knew better, but somehow none of them seemed to doubt that he was the simply the ward of the king. In the forges, the question of his birth did not matter.

"Ah, well." Gimli had sensed the lukewarm reception of his counsel. "You are a smart lad. You will figure it out."

Hammel took the opportunity to steer the conversation in a safer direction, and the next several minutes passed far more agreeably. Since Aldeth was still with her friends, he was content to remain where he was, chatting with Gimli while keeping an eye on the dancers.

One song finished to thunderous applause; a waltz rose up in its place, causing a moment of cheerful chaos as everyone rushed to find a partner. Hammel saw Aldeth looking for him, and he realized that this was the song they had danced to so many years ago. He had been so terrified of losing his place, he had scarcely been able to enjoy himself, but for weeks afterwards it was all he had dreamed of.

He was about to take his leave of Gimli and go to Aldeth when one of her companions tugged her hand, ignored her protests, and laughingly swept her into the waltz. Disappointed, and angry with himself for having let the opportunity pass, Hammel retreated to the safer, yet less satisfying territory of conversing with Gimli.

By now, a couple of other Dwarves had wandered over, and their ale-infused exuberance meant that Hammel's participation in the discussion was minimal: nodding and toasting at the right moments were the extent of his efforts. This left him free to observe Aldeth, whose hair streamed out behind her as she spun around in time with the music.

Then, over her shoulder, he saw something that immediately soured his mood: _it_. It and _her_ , joining the throng of dancers as if they were just another couple. It always asked her to dance, and she always said yes, even though she should have killed it instead. Watching the two of them smile at each other as they clasped hands was sickening, and his head throbbed as the darkness began to descend once more. Why did it always have to come to Edoras and Emyn Arnen? Why could it not remain among its own people and leave them alone? They did not want it there.

Well. He and Haiweth did not want it there. But _she_ did. Always bleating on about how they had to give it a chance, it was not the same as It, it was kind and honorable—as if her judgment could be counted upon. She was a fool to think it could be trusted, and an even greater fool if she expected Hammel and Haiweth to go along with her delusions.

The pounding in his head worsened as he stared at them, Aldeth all but forgotten. Why did they look so happy? Why was she grinning like an idiot? If only he had a gauntlet so he could punch them both, hear her shriek of pain as the bones in her face cracked. And then there was it—a bloody nose was the least it deserved. Hammel would punch it again and again, until there was nothing left.

The music reached a crescendo; Hammel's temples groaned in response. He could feel the rage building within him, as a storm beginning to bend the trees and send a wind whistling through their leaves; as fire feeding on wood, the smoke spiraling higher and higher into the night. He wanted to kill them. He wanted them both dead at his feet, their bodies hacked into millions of pieces. Then, finally, he would not have to look at them and remember why there was so much ugliness inside of him.

"Hammel?"

Aldeth appeared at his side, holding two cups of ale, but it was a moment before he registered her voice. What was she doing here? Had she not just been dancing? To cover up his confusion, he thanked her for the drink and then introduced her to his companions.

"Lord Gimli," Aldeth said in delight. "Hammel has told me so much about you."

"Has he now? I am surprised there was any room for me in his letters." Gimli winked at Hammel, who flushed—the Dwarf had often teased him over how much he could cram onto a single sheaf of parchment.

"Oh, yes, you have been so kind to him," Aldeth said earnestly. "And the work you have done sounds incredible—those lamps, for instance—Hammel describes everything so well, I feel as if I am there myself."

"Ah, but that is nothing compared to seeing it with your own eyes," Gimli assured her. "You shall have to come visit—perhaps Hammel can give you a tour, eh?"

Hammel kicked Gimli's boot, which, considering its thickness and the iron-capped toe, was rather ill-advised; it seemed to have no effect on its intended target, and he had to settle for glaring at the Dwarf with watering eyes.

"I would love that," Aldeth said softly. Despite himself, Hammel's heart leaped—she wanted to see the Glittering Caves because of him, because of all the letters he had written to her. He imagined giving her a tour, watching her eyes fill with awe as she beheld all the wonders she had read about. He even briefly entertained a fantasy of showing her one of the pools, where they could swim together and…

Whether Aldeth had guessed the nature of his thoughts, or if perhaps she had been entertaining a fantasy of her own, she blushed and added, "If I ever do come, I will have to convince my father to visit as well. He does not like to leave Edoras, but he always asks about Hammel's work, and I know he would love to see the forges you have constructed."

"The more the merrier," Gimli assured her, his generosity perhaps bolstered by the brimming mug of ale one of his companions had passed him.

Aldeth grinned at Hammel. He could tell she had taken an instant liking to Gimli; she did not even seem to mind when the Dwarf belched and wiped his mouth with his beard.

"Now, lass, tell me about yourself," Gimli said, casting a mischievous glance at Hammel. "This here is a secretive one."

Hammel nearly choked on his ale, but it was not the drink that made his cheeks burn red. "Gimli!" he spluttered as the Dwarves around them chortled. He normally hated to be laughed at, but for some reason it never bothered him as much with Gimli and his friends—although that did not make it any less embarrassing.

Aldeth noticed; he could have kissed her when she started talking to divert attention away from him. "There is not much to tell, really. I have lived here my whole life—my father and I…"

As she spoke, a familiar pressure began to build within Hammel's chest; his headache returned, and darkness seemed to cloud the corners of his vision.

 _What is wrong with me?_ he thought, and then he realized: his body was warning him.

 _It_ had reappeared within his field of vision—no longer dancing, but standing next to a pillar not ten yards behind Aldeth. Hammel stared at it, every one of his nerves on alert. It was talking to someone who was obscured by the pillar, but he guessed, based on the bent of its head, that that someone was _her_.

By now, anger was an instinctive response to seeing them, either alone or together, but something about their conversation made him wary—the way it was plainly trying not to be overheard? The way it was looking at her, which he could not have described if asked, but which filled him with a nameless dread?

And then a sleeve emerged from behind the pillar. A sleeve the color of her dress, a sleeve which slipped to reveal her hand. A hand that reached out and touched its arm. Why was she doing that? She was friends with it, but she did not touch it unless they were dancing, and they were not dancing now.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He had been avoiding her, and in his absence this terrible change had occurred. _She was touching it._ And he could see in its face that this was not the first time.

And now he was remembering things he did not want to remember, things that the darkness was supposed to keep out. The darkness was spreading, but not fast enough; he could still see the images, and the room around him was starting to disappear as the pressure in his chest and the pounding in his head grew and grew—

"Hammel? Are you feeling well? You look ill all of a sudden."

Aldeth's voice pierced through him like a bell in the fog. He came back to himself, piece by piece, and saw that she and Gimli were regarding him with concern.

"Tired," he said, falling back on his old excuse. "But I am fine, thank you," he added, seeing Gimli's unconvinced expression.

"You ought to get some rest," Aldeth encouraged him. "I am sure my father would not mind if you wanted to sleep in the shop—it would be much quieter there."

The thought of sleeping so near to her was making his head spin. "Thank you," he muttered, "but I am happy where I am."

This was enough to make Aldeth smile, though traces of worry still lingered in her gaze, and Gimli could not be so easily deceived. Hammel therefore had to spend the next several minutes paying attention to the conversation, smiling and nodding and making occasional contributions, until at last the frequency of their sidelong glances diminished and he was able to look back at the pillar.

They were gone.

He scanned the hall, checking the high table first. No luck there—only Haiweth, who had moved closer to Éowyn and the Elvish queen. After It, Hammel did not trust any immortal, and King Elessar's wife made him especially uneasy—her beauty was not natural, her eyes too perceptive. She had Haiweth caught in her spell, and he could not say a word against her. He averted his gaze.

If they were not sitting, then where were they? _She_ at least should have been easy to find, but tonight there were Gondorians aplenty in the hall, and her hair no longer stood out; _it_ , of course, blended in all too well, at least from a distance. His frustration mounted until at last he saw her dress—no more than a glimpse of fabric swirling around a corner. She was leaving the festivities, but the passage she had disappeared into was where the king's chambers were, not hers. Why would she go there?

He looked back at the crowd. Few would have marked her disappearance, if any; widescale inebriation had set in, and the room was awash in song and laughter. Someone had climbed onto a table, lost their footing, and fallen, to hoots and jeers from their companions. Men, Men, everywhere Men—but where was _it_?

His gaze returned to the pillar, more out of habit than hope, and that was when he saw a flash of gold—not one of the Rohirrim, but _it_ , exposed now because someone closer to Hammel had moved over a few feet. It was standing alone, quietly observing its surroundings, though the pillar prevented Hammel from seeing where its eyes were. He had the sinking feeling that he already knew.

And then it began to move. It disappeared, then emerged from the other side of the pillar, deftly weaving its way around jovial drunks and uncoordinated dancers. It passed the high table. Hammel knew where it was going now and something inside of him was screaming, but still it kept walking, walking until it reached the passage and disappeared after her.

Gimli had told him that Éomer had invited them to celebrate her and Prince Elfwine's birthdays. Hammel had not questioned this; there had always been a feast of some sort to mark the occasion, and they were close enough to Edoras to make the journey reasonable. But why would King Elessar come all this way for a ten-year-old boy? Why would _it_? And there was something, some remark he had overheard but to which, at the time, he had attached little importance: it had already been here when everyone else arrived.

Why had it already been here?

The darkness was growing. The darkness and the ugliness, intertwined, his muscles trembling with the effort to keep them at bay. He tried to think of the forges at Helm's Deep, of the calm he felt when he was working, but all he could hear were hammers inside his skull, the _clank_ , _clank_ of a headache that would not give him peace.

"Excuse me," he said to Aldeth and Gimli, and he left them without waiting for their responses. He wanted to vomit but instead his feet carried him towards the passage, towards them, towards the truth. He was vaguely aware of the mead in his tankard splashing over the sides, and he drank just enough to stop this from happening, his grip so tight on the handle he was surprised the thing did not shatter.

He passed a still, with so many people gathered around it that he could not hear himself think. The headache was now shrieking at his temples, and he hated every single one of the revelers, longed for a sword so he could cut them all down and walk through pools of blood as they died around him. This was the darkness, but he needed it, needed not to think about what he would find down that passage…

He stopped just outside the entrance and peered around the corner, though the noise was deafening and they would never have heard him coming. At first he saw only an empty hallway, but then he noticed that the door to Elfwine's room was open. As he stared at it, the agony in his head became unbearable; there was nothing left but the darkness and the ugliness, and they were saying such terrible things.

He stepped into the passage.

He walked to the open door.

He looked inside.

And he saw—

He saw—


	24. A Parting of Ways

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

"Auntie Gúthwyn?"

Éomund's daughter looked up and saw Elfwine, his features glum as he slid into the seat that had been recently vacated by Gimli. Even Tauriel's presence on the other side of the table did not cheer him, and he sighed as he asked, "Can I sit with you?"

Instead of his mother and father, he meant.

"Of course you can, little one," she assured him, glancing at Éomer and Lothíriel. The two of them were still ignoring each other, a muscle twitching in Éomer's throat and the food on Lothíriel's plate completely untouched. "Have you tried the potatoes? They are quite good tonight."

She reached for the dish, his favorite, but he merely shrugged. "I am not hungry. Hello, Leggy."

"Hello, Elfwine." Concern underlined Legolas's words; he, too, had noticed the boy's unhappiness. But he was smiling as he said, "That was a handsome dagger you received earlier. I am sure you will train with it as diligently as you have with the bow."

The dagger was Elfwine's birthday gift, presented to him by Éomer at the beginning of the feast. Elfwine had been thrilled, and most eager to know when he could begin wielding it; only with great reluctance had he consented to store it safely in his bedroom for the duration of the feast. Gúthwyn was certain that Legolas's remark would draw at least a smile from him, if not an invitation to go off and examine the blade, but Elfwine now seemed on the verge of tears.

"I told them I wanted a dog for my birthday," he said, blinking rapidly at the table, "but I should have asked for them to stop being mad at each other instead."

"Oh, little one." Gúthwyn wanted to weep herself—how could his parents be so cruel to him? How could they have let him sit between them like that, neither of them looking at him because that would have meant looking at the other? Unable to account for their negligence, she could only put her arm around his small shoulders and squeeze. "I wish for your sake that they would, but it is not so easy for them."

"They will be fighting forever," Elfwine choked out miserably. "They will never stop!" He screwed up his face, but it was too late: several tears had spilled over, leaving glistening trails down his cheeks.

"Forever is a long time, little one." Gúthwyn held her nephew tighter, exchanging a sympathetic glance with Legolas. "I do not think your parents will always be angry with each other."

"Yes, they _will_!" Elfwine was sobbing now, and as Gúthwyn hugged him, she saw several nearby diners glancing over, Éomer included; he at least had the decency to look ashamed of himself when she cast him a furious glare. Lothíriel, however, continued her conversation with Arwen and Faramir as if nothing were happening.

"Come, little one, it is your birthday," Gúthwyn said after a minute, keenly aware that she could offer him scant comfort. He looked up at her, his long lashes stuck together with tears, and drew in a shaky breath. "You do not have to stay at this table if you do not want to. Why not go and play with your friends? I can see Onyveth with some of the other boys and girls near the doors. It looks like they are playing a game."

"M-Mama says I have to be polite and talk to our guests," Elfwine informed her. "I cannot leave until the dancing starts."

He sounded so defeated that she had to resist the urge to storm over to her brother and his wife then and there, demanding an explanation for the callous way they were treating their son. Instead, she forced herself to inhale, then exhale—once she had the opportunity to speak with Éomer in private, she would give him more than a piece of her mind, but until then her anger would not help her nephew. "Well, since both of us are celebrating our birthdays today," she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I think we ought to be allowed to bend the rules a little. Just this once, you can leave early, and if your parents have a problem with that they can talk to me."

Elfwine stared at her in awe. "And I will not be in trouble?"

"No, you will not," Gúthwyn assured him. In fact, she doubted his absence would draw any comment at all, let alone a reprimand—Éomer clearly felt some remorse for his son's suffering, and Lothíriel would not dare cause a scene in front of Aragorn and Arwen.

"Well…" Elfwine's eyes darted first towards his parents, then hopefully to his friends.

"Go, little one. Enjoy your night."

It was all the encouragement Elfwine needed. He was off like an arrow, speeding away from the table as fast as his legs could carry him. Just before he reached Onyveth and the others, Gúthwyn saw him hastily wipe his face on his sleeve.

"He is lucky to have you," Legolas remarked.

Startled, she turned back around. Legolas's kind smile made her blush, and out of habit she tried to deflect the compliment. "It seems like all I am doing is putting a bandage on a wound when it really needs a tourniquet."

"Love is a potent salve in its own right."

Gúthwyn blushed even harder, no longer certain that they were talking only about Elfwine. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Haiweth rip apart a piece of bread with unusual vehemence, and she wondered if the girl had overheard Legolas's comment about love. But then Legolas could have said anything, even on so benign a subject as the weather, and the children would have found fault with it.

 _They will hate him even more tomorrow,_ she thought. _I do not have Cobryn's gift with words—I cannot make them see him the way I do. And how can I blame them, after how long it took me to trust him?_

Yet she had learned, and more importantly she had tried. Something Hammel and Haiweth both refused to do. She had to admit that this rankled—how was it that she who had borne the brunt of Haldor's cruelty was willing to give Legolas a chance, but they who had been kept out of harm's way would not?

 _They were so young in Mordor, though,_ she reminded herself. _They might not have been called to his tent, but he terrorized them all the same. And I could not bring myself to force them to spend time with Legolas, so they never learned to tell the difference between him and Haldor._ That had perhaps been her greatest mistake of all as far as the children were concerned, and tomorrow would be the reckoning for her failure.

"Would you like to dance?"

Gúthwyn started, but it was only Legolas, standing before her with an outstretched hand. She had not even noticed the musicians testing their instruments, nor the couples gathering eagerly in the center of the hall. Glad for the excuse to leave her thoughts behind, she accepted, although when she stood she felt keenly aware of Haiweth's eyes following her.

"You seem preoccupied," Legolas said once they reached the safety of the open floor, where it was difficult to hear one's own conversation, let alone another's. "Is it Elfwine? He looks happier now that he is with his friends."

"I was actually thinking of Hammel and Haiweth again,' she confessed as they took their positions. "I have no idea what to say to them. I feel like no matter how I phrase it—"

The music started then; she lost her concentration and immediately made the wrong move, almost crashing into Legolas before she could rectify her mistake.

"Are you all right?" he inquired, but she shook her head.

"Let us just dance for now, otherwise I will be stomping all over you."

"A fearsome prospect," Legolas said gravely.

Despite herself, Gúthwyn smiled. Hardy Elven warrior that Legolas was, she doubted she could do much damage even with her heaviest boots, but that did not make her ineptitude any less embarrassing.

"I must be one of your worst dancing partners," she grumbled after missing a turn that apparently everyone else had known about.

"You are not one of my better ones," Legolas agreed.

He had spoken in so bland a tone that at first Gúthwyn did not realize what he was saying; then she started laughing, and trying to stop so that their neighbors would not notice, the resulting sound drawing even more glances. "I thought you were supposed to shower me with compliments," she managed between giggles.

Legolas's mouth twitched. "Forgive me. Shall I say instead that you are the most entertaining?"

"Acceptable," she allowed.

"The most… unique?" Legolas suggested, guiding her through another turn she had not anticipated.

"Better."

The next turn brought them closer, palms touching. He did not have to raise her voice for her to hear him. "The most beautiful."

He spoke earnestly, but she pulled back—he did not need to exaggerate for her sake. "I am sure you have danced with Queen Arwen before. And my sister." _And Tauriel,_ she almost added.

Legolas smiled. "The most unable to take a compliment," he amended.

This was more to her liking, since it required little suspension of disbelief. It was not that she did not want Legolas to find her pleasing to his eye, but rather that _beautiful_ carried far too much weight. Would he still think her beautiful on their wedding night, when her clothes fell away and revealed the network of scars across her body?

 _Maybe I should warn him,_ she thought grimly. _So he is not appalled when he sees._ He knew about her back, but that was only the half of it—at least if she told him in advance, he would have time to practice concealing his disgust.

Or end the engagement.

Legolas must have noticed her disquiet, for when the song ended he suggested that they sit the next one out. She acquiesced, and they began to navigate the crowd, searching for a place where they might have some privacy. This was no easy task: numerous drinking competitions had sprung up around the hall, drawing dozens of spectators who were placing bets, shouting encouragements, and doing their own share of imbibing. Gúthwyn spotted Lebryn among them, triumphantly collecting coins from a group of disgruntled-looking Riders whose friend had just collapsed.

At last, she and Legolas found relative refuge next to a pillar; at any rate, they did not have to strain to hear one another.

"Hammel and Haiweth still," Legolas guessed, looking at her in concern.

Since it was mostly true, and easier to discuss than her scars, she nodded, and instantly her fears returned. "How do I tell them? They have no idea—none. Well, Haiweth… Haiweth once asked me if I had any feelings for you," she recalled suddenly. "But I did not know then, so I was upset she had asked, and we fought… and she has not mentioned it since. And Hammel has spent so much time ignoring me, I am certain he knows nothing, else he would have—he would have—yelled at me, or something."

"So Haiweth may have her suspicions," Legolas summarized, "but Hammel will be completely unprepared for the news."

Gúthwyn nodded. Put in those terms, it seemed quite cruel to Hammel—but what else could she have done? Writing to him in the hope that he would fly into a rage at a safe distance was dishonorable, and it would only have delayed the conversation, not averted it. She owed him very little at this point, but telling him and Haiweth in person was the least she could do.

"Are you sure you want to do this alone?" Legolas asked gently.

"I have to." She may not have had the faintest idea of how to inform the children, but she did know that Legolas's presence would only antagonize them.

Legolas did not respond, and as the silence deepened between them so did her sense of foreboding. "What if this is the end of my relationship with them?" she burst out. "What if they never want to see me again after tomorrow?" Legolas started to say something, but once she had started, she could not stop. "I have looked after them for sixteen years, nearly their whole lives—I might as well be Haiweth's mother—and I cannot bear the thought of losing them, of not being a part of their lives anymore—"

She was doing her best to keep her voice down, but people walking by were starting to glance over at her and Legolas, and it was plain that the conversation could not continue as it were. "C-Can we go somewhere else?" she asked, swallowing. "Somewhere—somewhere we can talk—"

"Outside?" Legolas suggested.

Gúthwyn started to nod, then reconsidered. Because of the feast, people would be going in and out of the Golden Hall until the early hours of the morning; there would be no privacy on the stairs, and thus no opportunity to sneak away to Théodred's spot. The stables came to mind, but she dismissed them as well. Even if they timed it properly, one of the guards was likely to see them, and there were few innocent explanations for such a clandestine meeting.

Then it occurred to her, the simplest solution of all. It was not without danger—in fact, if they were detected, it could be disastrous—but the crowd itself would offer their greatest chance of concealment.

"Elfwine's room," she whispered, knowing Legolas would hear her anyway. "I will go—and then you can wait a few minutes and follow me—"

"That may not be wise."

"We will be seen if we go outside, either by one of the guests or the guards," she pointed out. "But no one will think twice if they see me going towards Elfwine's room. And I doubt anyone will be paying close enough attention to that hallway to notice if you slip in a few minutes later. Please, I just—" _Need someone to tell me what to say to Hammel and Haiweth,_ she meant to finish, but her breath hitched in her throat and she felt a lump forming in its place.

The doubt in Legolas's eyes vanished as he watched her. "Elfwine's room it is."

She could not help it: as risky as it was to touch him when Hammel and Haiweth were in the same hall, she found herself reaching out to place a hand on his arm. It was only for a few seconds as she whispered "Thank you," and then she had to pull back, but she hoped it was enough to convey her gratitude.

"Go," he said, nodding. "I will wait."

It took her longer than she had anticipated to work her way through the crowd. She was detained first by Lebryn, then by Elfhelm, each requesting to claim a dance with her later that evening. Though she readily agreed, Lebryn gave her a knowing look and added, "If your prince can spare you, that is," and Elfhelm's slightly more discreet phrasing ("It seems you are enjoying yourself tonight") felt no less pointed. It was clear that both men would have liked to talk more about Legolas, had she given them an opening, but she managed to excuse herself just in time.

 _By the Valar, everyone will know about it before Hammel and Haiweth at this rate,_ she thought despairingly as she left the feast.

The corridor leading to Elfwine's room was far quieter, the noise from the hall growing distant as she neared her destination. With one last look around to make sure no one was watching, she opened the door and strode inside. The maids must have come by recently, for the usual detritus of toys and clothes had been whisked away, leaving spotless floors and a tidy, well-made bed. The only item out of place was the dagger, which Elfwine had laid lovingly across his pillow.

 _Somehow, I do not believe that was what Éomer had in mind when he told him to store it away safely,_ she thought with a flicker of amusement.

Precisely five minutes later, there was a light knock at the door, and she turned just as Legolas stepped inside. His eyes, too, were drawn to the dagger, and he smiled.

"Did you ever sleep with your bow?" she could not resist asking him.

"Once or twice," he confessed.

Gúthwyn's smirk faded as she recalled how many times she had checked on Hammel and found him with his hand still on the last page he had been reading, the candle guttering in its holder.

"Gúthwyn." No longer restrained by the presence of others, Legolas drew near and placed his hands on her shoulders. "I do not know what the future holds, but I will face it with you all the same. No matter what Hammel and Haiweth do, you will not be left alone."

"They will hate me," she said with a shuddering breath. The children's faces filled her mind, contorted with rage, hissing words she could not hear. "Both of them. They will abandon me, as if I were nothing to them."

"That is what you fear," Legolas murmured, "but it may not come to pass."

"Do you really think Hammel will want to stay with me?" she asked, looking into Legolas's eyes as her own brimmed with tears. "Do you think he will he come to the colony with us?"

Legolas did not lie to her. "I wish I could say I did. And he will be welcome, if that is what he chooses. But I do not believe it likely."

Her throat burned too much to answer.

"However," Legolas continued, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "unless things have changed greatly since I left for Dorwinion, you have a far stronger bond with Haiweth."

Gúthwyn gave a disbelieving, breathless sort of laugh. "All I am to her is an overbearing chaperone who stands between her and the life she wants in Minas Tirith."

"I know it has not been easy with her," Legolas allowed, "but she does not possess Hammel's temper. She will remember the love you have shown her all these years."

To her mortification, Gúthwyn started to cry—how easily tears seemed to come to her these days! "Th-That may not be enough," she choked out before she was overwhelmed.

Legolas drew her into his arms, startling her—it had been so long since they had had enough privacy for such intimate contact. But all this was forgotten as she leaned into him, taking comfort from the solidity of his embrace. His touch alone could not solve her problems, yet somehow it made them seem easier to meet.

"It will be enough," he said, with a conviction that made her want to believe him. "What if you were to talk to her first? Before Hammel?"

Gúthwyn glanced up at him, wiping her eyes. "D-Do you think that will make a difference?"

"Aye. If he becomes upset, his reaction may make it difficult for you to discern Haiweth's thoughts, and his anger could affect how she responds. It might be better to speak with her alone, away from his influence."

It was this very reasoning that had almost propelled her to confide in Haiweth earlier that evening, before backing down at the last second. Yet somehow it had never occurred to her that she could still talk to Haiweth first tomorrow, and the more she listened to Legolas, the more sensible this approach sounded. If she tried to address the children at the same time, Hammel's ire would dwarf Haiweth's, and in all likelihood she would be so busy trying to calm him down that she would miss the opportunity to assess Haiweth's feelings. If she could get Haiweth alone, however… maybe the girl would be more willing to listen.

"I-I think you are right," she said, taking a deep breath. "I will do that. Thank you—you have always been so thoughtful where they are concerned—"

She kissed him because she was grateful, because they were alone, because it had been so long and she was suddenly desperate to feel his lips against hers. He held her tight, his arms circling around her and warding off the outside world. It was just the two of them now, her hands somehow in his hair, his limbs trembling at her touch. And it was perfect.

Without warning, something slammed into the side of her head. There was an explosion of pain; the room disappeared, and when it returned she was lying on the ground, crumpled against Elfwine's bed. How had she gotten here? And what was that smell?

"Gúthwyn!" someone cried, their voice sounding very far away. Legolas. She had been kissing him. Why was she not still kissing him?

She tried to sit up, but her head was throbbing too much, and the floor spun around her in dizzying circles. She tried to speak but nearly threw up instead. What was wrong with her? She needed Legolas, needed him to help—but his feet were turning away from her, towards the open door.

"Hammel," she heard him say.

 _No,_ she thought. _No, no_ —

Through blurred vision, she saw the shape of a man upon the threshold, a man who was now stepping into the room.

"Hammel," Legolas said again, his voice now closer to Gúthwyn.

There was a noise, such an awful, inhuman sound that Gúthwyn did not realize it was coming from Hammel until he sprang forward.

"Legolas!" she tried to scream, to warn him, but all that came out was a choked whisper as he rushed in front of her.

Hammel crashed into him with a horrific _thump_ , but Legolas did not yield so much as a single step. The noise was unbearable now, Hammel screaming with inarticulate rage, and Gúthwyn thought her skull would split in two.

"Hammel," she heard Legolas murmur, "I am so sorry you found out this way—"

A fresh howl tore through the air. Gúthwyn's eyes were beginning to focus, and she could now see Hammel and Legolas locked in struggle. Legolas's back was to her, his muscles taut with exertion; Hammel kept pulling away and then flinging himself forward, desperate to claw his way past his opponent. As his features became clearer, Gúthwyn realized in horror that he was staring straight at her.

It was not Legolas whom he was trying to attack.

"Hammel." Legolas attempted to reason with him. "Please. I know you are upset—let us talk about this—"

A torrent of Black Speech poured from Hammel's lips, and Gúthwyn was shocked by how much he had remembered—she herself did not know more than a word or two of that hateful tongue. Hearing him speak it now filled her with revulsion.

"Hammel, I cannot understand you." Still holding him off, Legolas glanced back at Gúthwyn, worriedly assessing her condition. "Gúthwyn—"

" _Get—your—hands—OFF—of—me!_ "

As Legolas turned to reply, Hammel snapped his head forward, hitting Legolas square in the face. Caught off-guard, Legolas loosened his grip, and with a triumphant cry Hammel ducked under his arms and lunged for Gúthwyn.

There was no way to defend herself, for she had only just managed to sit up. She was powerless to do anything except watch as Hammel reached for her, the muscles in his arms flexing, his face contorted into something nearly unrecognizable…

Only a second later, Legolas recovered and hauled him away, but not before Gúthwyn had seen her child's fingers grasping for her neck.

"No!" Hammel roared as he was thwarted, Legolas standing once more between him and Gúthwyn. "Let _go_ —"

"Hammel, I will not let you hurt her."

 _He just tried to strangle me,_ Gúthwyn thought, touching her neck in disbelief. Hammel and Legolas were still arguing, but none of it registered—somehow, nothing seemed to matter anymore. She had raised Hammel. She had loved him and nurtured him and protected him, and now his only object was to kill her with his bare hands.

"At least a whore is earning a living!" Hammel roared at her in Rohirric. "But _you_ , you are not even being paid for what you have sunk to! You disgusting, contemptible woman—you would let him fuck you just like you did with Haldor!"

"Gúthwyn, what is he saying?" Legolas demanded, but for once she did not acknowledge him. She was looking at Hammel as if she had never seen him before, searching for any resemblance for the boy he had once been and finding nothing. There was only this man in front of her, a stranger who wanted to cause her pain and was taking pleasure in doing it.

And he knew her weaknesses.

"How do you think Borogor would feel if he could see your disgrace? Even he would want nothing to do with you now, you worthless bitch."

Something broke inside of Gúthwyn, as soft and quiet as the snipping of a thread.

She pulled herself to her knees, then to her feet. "Legolas."

He turned his head, still keeping Hammel back. "Gúthwyn, do you need a healer? I will—"

"No. I need you to let go of him."

The struggle between Legolas and Hammel momentarily ceased: Legolas's eyes wide with confusion, Hammel's lips curling into a sneer.

"I do not think this would help matters," Legolas warned. "He already threw that tankard at you."

Distracted, Gúthwyn looked around, at last spotting the offending object on the floor. It was one of the tankards fortified with thick bands of iron around the exterior—so that explained the pounding in her skull.

And perhaps that meant Hammel had made two attempts to kill her tonight.

 _Third time pays for all,_ she thought, lifting her gaze.

"Legolas, do you trust me?" she asked, looking not at him but at Hammel, the boy who had never been hers.

"Of course." Legolas's reply came without hesitation.

"Then please, let go of him."

Reluctance and doubt warred across Legolas's features, but Gúthwyn kept her eyes on Hammel, who was already clenching his fists. At length, Legolas relented, and with a sigh he slowly relinquished his hold on Hammel and stepped aside.

And then Hammel was flying towards her, reaching out once more to squeeze the life from her neck. Having anticipated precisely that, it was the work of a moment for Gúthwyn to knock aside his hands and shove him as hard as she could. He staggered back, but was not deterred—as soon as he regained his balance, he lunged towards her again, this time bending at the waist as if he would tackle her to the ground.

 _Oh, Hammel. You are stronger and angrier than me, but you are no fighter._

Instead of meeting him, she pivoted at the last second and stuck out her foot. Hammel went sprawling, narrowly missing a collision with the bed, and Gúthwyn felt no remorse as she watched him crash to the floor.

"Gúthwyn!" Legolas shouted behind her. When she glanced back, his eyes were fixed on the bed.

 _Elfwine's dagger!_ she realized in horror. Hammel was scrambling to his feet; he had not yet noticed the blade, but there was no time to lose. She leaped forward, breathless with fear, hardly daring to imagine what would happen if he saw the dagger before she could reach it. If she could just get to it first… but he had now realized why her hand was outstretched, and he, too, was lunging for the pillow, trying to push her out of the way…

Her fingers closed around the hilt just inches ahead of him, and before he could think to wrestle it from her gasp she spun around and pressed the blade against his throat.

"Get away from me," she warned, her voice somehow steady despite the pounding of her heart. "Stay back."

Hammel's face was flushed, almost feverish, and there was a such a wild look in his eyes that she was afraid she would have to decide how far she would go to defend herself. Yet some remnant of reason must have prevailed, for all his attention was upon the dagger, and after several tense seconds he stepped back, breathing heavily.

Gúthwyn could not afterwards recall how long they stood that way, observing one another, the weapon between them a silent question of the lines they were willing to cross. The more she looked at him, the more she wondered who he was, and the colder she felt towards him.

"For someone so intelligent, you know so very little," she said, quietly, in Rohirric. Hammel's jaw clenched at that, but she tightened her grip on the dagger and stared him down. "And you know _nothing_ of what I let Haldor do to me."

"I saw you," he spat, his voice hoarse from yelling. "In that tent. I followed you one night. I saw how you enjoyed it."

Gúthwyn had blanched at his words, but now white-hot fury blazed within her. " _Enjoyed it_?"

"You were moaning like a dog in heat. And here you are, ready to spread your legs again for Elvish filth." Hammel jerked his head towards Legolas, who was watching them uncomprehendingly.

" _I never enjoyed it!_ " She launched herself at Hammel, Elfwine's dagger flashing through the air. Within seconds, she had him against the wall, his hair wrapped around her fist and the dagger poised at his throat.

"Gúthwyn, no!" Legolas jumped forward, stopping just short of touching her. "You do not want to do this. No matter what he has said."

She heard him, but could not answer; all she saw was Hammel, his eyes dark as bottomless pits. She could almost feel his pulse beneath the blade. "For once in your wretched life, you will listen to me," she swore, ragged breaths punctuating each word.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Hammel's hand creeping up as if to strike her. With a snarl, she dug the blade into his skin, hard enough to draw blood. She glimpsed fear in his eyes then, like a distant candle in a sea of darkness, and she pressed until it flared.

"Moaning?" She flung the word back at him. "Try _whimpering_ because it hurt. Because of the shame I felt, letting him use me like that. You have no idea what that is like, so how _dare_ you tell me that I enjoyed it—"

Hammel lurched forward, but before she could even react he had stopped himself with a cry—the blade had bit even further into his skin, and blood was now trickling down his neck.

"Do you want to know why I did it?" she asked, never taking her eyes off of him. "Do you want to know why I let him _fuck_ me, as you called it?"

She was expecting a retort, but there was only silence, save for his unsteady breathing.

"I did it for _you_ ," she hissed, watching as he stiffened. "He told me that if I ever tried to fight back, he would kill you and Haiweth. And it was not an idle threat. So what would you have done, Hammel? A clever young man like you, surely you can tell me what other choices I had. Something I missed all those years when I was lying on my back and letting him _fuck_ me."

She did not expect him to have an answer to that, yet somehow his silence antagonized her even further, and all she wanted was to hurt him the way he had hurt her. As he knew her weaknesses, so did she know his, and she said, "You might find it interesting to learn that he threatened to rape Haiweth if I did not service him to his satisfaction."

Hammel recoiled, but she tightened her grip on him, squeezing her nails into the base of his neck. He was not going to look away from this. "Tell me, Hammel, what should I have done? Should I have thrown your sister to him to save myself? Tell me, since you are so smart, so cunning! What should I have done? What choice did I have?"

She was screaming by then, the knife clenched so tightly in her fist that the white outlines of her knuckles were visible, and in that instant she thought she might slay him at the slightest provocation.

"Gúthwyn." Once more, Legolas's voice pierced through the anger that had wrapped thick and tight around her. As if a fog had been lifted, she saw suddenly and clearly what she was on the brink of doing.

She forced herself to step back, to lower the weapon. As she did so, all the adrenaline seemed to leave her, and she could no longer feel the throbbing of her heart, the hatred coursing hot through her veins. "You will never know all that I did to keep you and Haiweth safe," she whispered, trembling. "I sacrificed _everything_ for you, and not once have I resented you for the price I paid. Even now, I do not regret what I did. But for you to stand there and judge me, to suggest that I _enjoyed_ being raped—I will never forget that you said that to me. And then for you to speak of Borogor, as if you could possibly remember what he was like—because if you did, you would understand that he would want me to be happy, even if that meant marrying Legolas."

Hammel did not appear to be paying the least attention; his eyes were darting between her and the blade pointed harmlessly at the floor, as if calculating how long it might take her to raise it again.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" she demanded at last.

Moving so quickly that she was barely able to tighten her hold on the dagger in time, Hammel closed the gap between them and spat in her face.

She just looked at him; she did not even have the energy to wipe away his saliva. "I do not know what happened to the boy I rescued from Mordor," she said, "but you are a stranger to me. I have tried to understand you, and you have responded with nothing but cruelty."

"Believe me, that is only a tenth of what I would do to you if that _thing_ were not here," Hammel snarled.

It took her a moment to realize he was referring to Legolas.

It took her another moment to look him straight in the eye and say, "I never want to see you again."

Hammel snorted, but she had meant every last word. "You will leave Edoras tonight. I will give you time to say farewell to Haiweth and Aldeth, but you will not return to this city while I am still here. What you choose to do when I am gone is no longer of any concern to me. Haiweth can visit you as often as she pleases, but you will not find welcome under any roof of mine."

For a moment, Hammel stood stock-still; he had clearly not anticipated this. Yet his features betrayed neither remorse nor alarm over his altered circumstances—in fact, he almost looked relieved, as if she had just cut them free from an unbearable weight. But that did not stop him from striking one last blow. "I have already watched you be an Elf's whore once. I can assure you I have no desire to witness a repeat performance."

Her lips moved as if of their own accord. "Get out."

And Hammel went, taking care to shoulder Legolas on his way to the door. As he stepped into the hall, he looked back at her and said, "Haiweth will not be _visiting_ me."

With that final, cryptic remark, he walked out of the room and out of her life.


	25. Haiweth

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

It was her first evening back in Edoras, and Haiweth was already counting down the days until she could leave again.

The city—if such a word could be applied to a smattering of thatched-roof homes upon a rocky, barren hill—seemed to have diminished in her absence, though she had been away for less than four years. The outer walls that she had once thought enormous now looked primitive; even King Éomer's hall was smaller and darker than she remembered. The only thing in Edoras that had not changed in the least were its people, still going about their insulated lives without the slightest desire for anything more.

She would never have said any of this aloud, of course. King Éomer was terribly frightening when he became angered, and unlike Hammel she had no desire to provoke him. She also did not want to offend Éowyn, who had been so kind to her, and moreover always had a swift rebuke for anyone who insulted the Riddermark. And then there was Gúthwyn, who would look at her as if she had killed a small child.

But she missed the tranquil civilization of Emyn Arnen, the bustling streets of Minas Tirith. The past few months had been so delightful! Helping Éowyn in her gardens, playing with Elboron on the porch, listening to Faramir talk at the dinner table about seemingly every subject under the sun; the occasional trip to the city, where Queen Arwen had invited her to tea, and there had been so much to see and do…

Sometimes she wanted to pinch herself, thinking of how lucky she was to be in Éowyn and Faramir's household. Éowyn was so beautiful, she could have been a queen in her own right, but unlike Queen Lothíriel she never looked down upon Haiweth. In fact, she went out of her way to be welcoming—Haiweth could still scarcely believe that she was allowed to wear Éowyn's old gowns, or that she would regularly find herself alone in the gardens with Éowyn, tending to the plants while conversing like equals.

And Faramir! Who was so handsome and noble, and so in love with Éowyn. Unlike King Éomer, he never raised his voice, not even when Elboron once pulled out all the books on the lowest shelf in his library and damaged several of the spines. Whenever he and Éowyn discussed Gondorian politics, he would always take the time to explain the finer details to Haiweth—but not in a condescending way, as if he thought the complexities beyond her reach.

It almost made her guilty to realize how much she was enjoying herself without Gúthwyn, but in truth it had been a relief not to have her breathing down her neck, forbidding her from doing anything that might result in a boy looking at her. She could not understand why Gúthwyn had to be so strict, when Éowyn and Queen Arwen thought it was perfectly permissible for her to attend balls and go for walks around the upper levels of the city.

 _If she had her way, I would die an old spinster,_ she thought crossly. Gúthwyn was so against marriage that she had refused to tell Haiweth anything about relations between a man and a woman, and Éowyn had had to explain to her what making love meant.

She blushed a little as she recalled some of the things Éowyn had said, especially the parts about what a husband might do to please his wife. She was not sure she really believed that it was so wonderful, especially since she could not imagine how a man would fit inside a woman that way—but it did not sound so terrible, and she was more inclined to trust Éowyn, who was married, rather than Gúthwyn, who knew nothing of such matters.

What Gúthwyn did not realize was that her situation, compared with Éowyn's, was the reason why Haiweth was so determined to marry. Éowyn had a loving husband, an adorable son, and a house all her own to manage as she pleased, whereas Gúthwyn was alone and unhappy and exposed to constant ridicule every time she ventured out of Rohan. Although she was kind enough not to say anything, it was obvious that Haiweth and Hammel were the reasons for all the stares she received in Minas Tirith, and that she was considered by almost everyone to be an unwed mother.

But the rumors did not affect just Gúthwyn. With the exception of Aeluin, all of Queen Arwen's maids sneered at Haiweth, and not one of them wanted to be her friend. Nindriel was the worst of the lot, and Haiweth would never forget the time she had leaned close, as if to share a secret, while everyone was walking together in the gardens. Haiweth's heart had leaped, thinking she would finally be included in the latest gossip, only for Nindriel to whisper, "It is just a matter of time before you follow in your whore mother's footsteps."

None of this would have happened if Gúthwyn had just married Prince Elphir like she was supposed to. A prince! No one would have dared to say anything about her, Hammel, or Haiweth ever again, and they could have all lived in Dol Amroth, which sounded like the most beautiful city. Gúthwyn still would not tell Haiweth why the engagement had ended, but Haiweth assumed it was because she could not bear the thought of leaving Rohan. For Elendil's sake! Sometimes Haiweth wanted to hate her for having had such an opportunity and throwing it away as if it meant nothing.

But even if it had not worked out with Prince Elphir, there was still Cobryn—after all, so many people already thought he and Gúthwyn were in a secret relationship. (Again, Haiweth was reminded of Nindriel, who had once taunted her, "Why do your father and your mother not marry? Does he not want her because she is a whore? Or does she not want him because he is a cripple?") Though they had no romantic affection for one another, that was no reason for them not to get married. Even if people said it was beneath a king's sister to marry a councilor, at least no one could accuse them of having an affair anymore.

Elphir, Cobryn, or someone. Anyone. As long as it was not…

Her eyes betrayed her, darting to the mass of dancing couples further down the hall. There they were, gazing at each other as if no one else existed, their touches lingering even when the music dictated a separation. Haiweth's stomach turned as he bent his head, drawing close to her at an opportune moment; whatever he said made her blush, her cheeks turning an unnatural shade of pink.

Gúthwyn and Legolas. Gúthwyn and _Legolas_. Who looked so much like that other Elf whom Haiweth did not name, even to herself, because she was afraid of what memories it might summon. She never thought of that place, not anymore, but what she still could not understand was how Legolas was him and yet was not him, and how no one ever seemed to question this.

Including Gúthwyn.

For years, Haiweth had tried to look the other way, but now she could no longer deny what she was seeing. Somehow, at some point she had never been able to define, Gúthwyn and Legolas had become friends—and then he had been allowed to visit her in her private chambers, and she had started smiling whenever he spoke to her. Worse, she began encouraging Haiweth to spend more time with him, because he was so _kind_ and so _considerate_ and all sorts of other words that she did not want to hear in connection with him.

Just when Haiweth had become truly alarmed, however, Legolas had gone to Dorwinion, and she had sighed in relief. Surely his departure meant that nothing further would happen between him and Gúthwyn, because a man would not leave behind the woman he loved. Perhaps Haiweth had even been mistaken, imagining sentiments that were not there.

Yet Gúthwyn's misery told another story, and although disaster had only just been averted, Haiweth could not help but pity her. For as long as she could remember, Gúthwyn had always had her odd moods—one minute she would be happy and carefree, the next she would tense and retreat into herself, going somewhere Haiweth could not reach. But she had never been so listless, so uninterested in anything, as she had become without Legolas, and Haiweth almost felt guilty for being glad that he had left.

 _But still,_ she had told herself, _what is done is done, and it is better for everyone that way._

Or so she had thought. Earlier that spring, however, there had been an unusually warm evening, and she had opened her window to enjoy a soft breeze while she drew. It seemed that Éowyn and Faramir had had the same idea, for their voices soon drifted out into the air, bits and pieces making their way to Haiweth: _…found him, thank the Valar… back from Dorwinion… finally settled…_

Those horrifying fragments were all Haiweth could decipher, and she had passed a sleepless night imagining what Éowyn or Faramir might tell her in the morning. Yet all Éowyn had said was that Legolas appeared to have returned from Dorwinion, and weeks had crawled by without further tidings; Gúthwyn's letters, arriving faithfully and frequently, had not mentioned him. Just when Haiweth was starting to breathe again, however, they had made the journey to Edoras, and he had been there. As if he belonged. As if he would never leave…

"Haiweth?"

Someone was calling her, and Haiweth realized with a start that this was not the first time they had tried to get her attention. "Sorry, what?" she asked, blinking to reorient herself as the crushing noise of the feast returned.

"We were just discussing the flower arrangements Lothíriel made." To Haiweth's immense embarrassment, it was Queen Arwen smiling at her, though she did not look annoyed.

"Oh, yes—they are beautiful," Haiweth said, taking another glance at the blue and white flowers that Queen Lothíriel had interspersed with various hints of greenery. Now she remembered: Éowyn had been telling them about her gardens, and Haiweth had started thinking about Emyn Arnen, and then she had lost track of the conversation. Éowyn was no longer even at the table, and Haiweth wondered where she had gone before realizing that Faramir and Elboron's seats were also empty—they must have been putting Elboron to bed.

"Lothíriel, you have quite outdone yourself this time," Queen Arwen said. "Your father has always sung your praises as a host, but if possible I would say he has underestimated your eye for detail."

"Thank you—I shall have to ask him to attend more diligently to his eulogical duties as a parent."

Queen Lothíriel's remark made them laugh, but Haiweth knew it had been forced, just as she knew she had not been imagining the tension at the head of the table earlier that evening. Both she and King Éomer had acted strangely all dinner, and then he had wasted no time in suggesting to King Elessar that they visit the stills to sample the various meads on offering. Only when the men were gone had Queen Lothíriel seemed to relax ever so slightly, as though she were glad for her husband's absence.

Haiweth wished she had noticed Éowyn leaving, so she might have made her excuses as well; she did not really want to linger in close conversation with Queen Lothíriel, who had always made her feel like a nuisance. Glancing discreetly around to see if anyone else was near enough for a chat, she saw only some Elves towards the other end of the table, Tauriel among them.

Tauriel! Haiweth tried not to look at her too often, in case she was caught, but she could not believe it was possible for anyone to have that color hair. It was so beautiful—fiery reds and oranges that reminded her of a sunset—and it was so long! Longer than even Gúthwyn's, it fell down to at least her knees, and yet unlike Gúthwyn's it never seemed to be tangled or in need of a brush.

Haiweth had tried, on more than one occasion, to draw Tauriel's likeness, but she had never come close to succeeding, and she had always wound up throwing her attempts away in frustration. All she had was black ink, which was utterly useless for such a task. But even if she had red or orange ink, she could not imagine how it would do any justice to Tauriel's hair. If only she knew how to paint…

Queen Arwen and Queen Lothíriel had moved on to discussing plans for Rohan's upcoming winter fair, and Haiweth was half listening, half envisioning a painting of Tauriel when she noticed that Queen Lothíriel had gone silent, her eyes fixing curiously on something behind Haiweth. Before she could around, a set of fingers dug painfully into her shoulder, and she cried out in alarm.

"We need to talk." It was Hammel, hissing in her ear, and when she looked at him she found herself recoiling from his expression. There had always been shadows in his eyes that she did not want to examine, but this was a wildness that frightened her, a rage that seemed beyond his control. He was shaking with it; every muscle in his body was clenched, and his grip on her was tightening.

A thought came to her, not out of annoyance or embarrassment, but fear: _Leave me alone. Go somewhere else._

"We can talk after the feast," she said, trying to shake him off.

"No. I need to talk to you _right now_." Hammel's voice rose, even though his face was mere inches from her own, and she tried not to wince as his fingers flexed into her collarbone.

Fire flickered at the corner of her eye. "Is there a problem?" Tauriel asked, looking suspiciously at Hammel.

He ignored the Elf. " _Now,_ " he told Haiweth, squeezing until she almost gasped.

"You are hurting me," she answered as quietly as she could in Rohirric. "Please let go of me."

"Hammel, you are not aware of your strength. There is no need for this," Arwen said, as calmly as if she were declining more sugar in her tea. Yet there was no mistaking the steel in her words. "It would be best for you to release her."

"Or you will have no choice in the matter." That was Tauriel, sounding closer than before, and Haiweth's cheeks burned with mortification. Why did Hammel always have to cause a scene? Why did he have such little regard for what others thought of him?

"Look at me," he ordered her, and reluctantly she obeyed, although his eyes were the last thing she wanted to see. "Am I talking to Elves, or am I talking to my sister?"

"You are talking to no one," Queen Lothíriel said sharply, and Haiweth heard her chair scrape against the floor as she stood. "You will leave this table at once."

 _No, no, no,_ Haiweth thought as everyone around them fell silent. They were all looking at her and Hammel, and she wanted to sink into the floor—any minute now King Éomer might return, and then he would start threatening Hammel, and she was afraid of what her brother's response might be. What if he tried to hit King Éomer? The guards would arrest him—they might even kill him—

She made these calculations in an instant, and she knew what had to be done to smooth things over. "All right," she told Hammel in as calm a voice as she could manage. "I will go with you."

She rose to her feet, stifling a cry as he transferred his grip to her arm. What on Middle-earth was wrong with him? No doubt he would have hauled her up if she had not stood quickly enough for his liking.

"Haiweth, you need not go with him if you are frightened," Arwen said before they could leave. Haiweth knew that she had only to say the word, and Hammel would not be allowed to drag her off—but this power was far more alarming than comforting.

"I am fine," she lied, just in time. Hammel yanked her away from the table, and she barely managed to regain her footing so she could pretend she was going with him of her own accord. "Everything is all right," she insisted when Arwen stood in astonishment. "I will be back soon— _Hammel, stop it_ ," she hissed in Rohirric as he continued to drag her forward. "I am perfectly capable of walking on my own! Slow down!"

But Hammel did not slow down, nor did he loosen his hold on her arm. He marched her like she was a prisoner towards the passage leading to her bedroom, and tears sprang to her eyes as she struggled to keep pace with him.

"Hammel, my arm! Please, you are hurting me!"

He did not listen; he did not even appear to have heard her. Like a creature possessed by some form of madness, all his will seemed bent on one thing: separating her from everyone else, making it impossible for her to escape or call for help.

 _He is my brother,_ she reminded herself, frightened by the direction her thoughts had taken. _He would never harm me._

Or would he? Her brother might not, but this was no longer her brother, or at least not the one she recognized. What was the stranger who had taken his place capable of doing?

He brought her to her room and thrust her inside, shutting the door behind them. She stumbled and would have fallen had he not grabbed her again, righting her.

"What are you doing?" she demanded as he strode to her wardrobe and flung it open.

"We need to leave. Tonight," he answered, starting to take out her dresses.

"No—Hammel, stop it, you have to be careful with them!" Haiweth cried in alarm, rushing forward to prevent him from damaging the gowns. He pushed her away, not stopping until every last one of them was in a crumpled, colorful heap on the floor.

"Are you insane?" she shrieked. "What is wrong with you?"

Her wardrobe in ruins at his feet, Hammel turned this way and that, until his eyes fell upon something else—the bag she had brought with her from Emyn Arnen, which was lying on her desk. As she watched in horror, he went over and turned it upside down, emptying it of its contents.

"Hammel, no!" she cried as her belongings spilled everywhere. A bottle of ink went crashing to the ground and burst—the beautiful blue bottle Faramir had brought her from one of his trips to Minas Tirith. She had packed it so carefully, and now it lay in dripping shards on the floor. "Hammel, stop it, you are ruining everything!"

And then she froze, for another item, even more precious to her than Faramir's gift, had caught her eye: a folded square of parchment that had tumbled out of her bag at the last moment. She held her breath, but Hammel had not yet noticed; he was staring at the bag as if he could not remember what he was doing with it.

Haiweth had been carrying that square of parchment ever since Talathdil had slipped it into her hand at the end of their last dance in Minas Tirith. Most of that evening was a pleasant blur, but she still remembered how softly his lips had grazed her knuckles, and the promise in his eyes as he slipped away into the crowd.

If Hammel opened the note—if he read the words she now knew by heart… Talathdil had not left his signature, but it would be easy enough for Hammel to make the connection, and in his current state she feared how he might react.

Desperate to keep his attention occupied, Haiweth did something very foolish: she reached out and shoved him, sending him stumbling away from her desk, and then screamed at him, "Enough! I will not allow you to treat me like this!"

It occurred to her as soon as she uttered these words that she had no real means of stopping Hammel from ransacking her room, but it seemed she had momentarily jolted him back to his senses, for he looked almost surprised to see her there.

"What on Middle-earth is the matter with you?" she asked in the ensuing silence.

Hammel's rage was rekindled as swiftly as a strong wind taking up the embers of a fire, and she flinched from the heat in his gaze. "I saw her. And it," he spat, each word forced out through gnashing teeth.

"Her?" Haiweth tried not to shiver at how guttural his voice sounded. "Do you mean Gúthwyn?"

He actually hissed, and she sprang back in alarm. "Gúthwyn and what?" she pressed when she regained her nerves. "What is 'it'? Why are you acting like this?"

" _Gúthwyn_ and that—that _thing_ —" Hammel's mouth was spasming like a rabid dog's; she half expected it to start foaming, and she shrank even further away.

" _What_ thing? What are you talking about?"

Hammel looked at her with such rage, she finally understood.

"Legolas?"

"Do not say that name to me!" he yelled, and in terror she closed her mouth and watched as he began pacing. "I will kill it," he vowed, his fists clenching as if he were imagining them around the Elf's throat. "And I will kill her, too, that disgusting whore."

She had heard Hammel rail against Legolas often enough, although even at his angriest he had never sounded this unhinged; but her blood ran cold when he spoke like that about Gúthwyn. "She is not a whore, and she has done nothing to deserve the way you talk about her!"

Hammel whirled upon her with an inarticulate cry of fury, and she had no time to brace herself before he grabbed her arms and yanked her close. "I will call her whatever I want,' he snarled, flecks of spit striking her cheeks. "And _you_ complain about her often enough, do not think I have forgotten."

But his accusations had the opposite of their intended effect, delivered as they were by a madman inhabiting her brother's body, and the suggestion that her grumblings were at all similar to his ravings filled her with shame.

She did not hate Gúthwyn. And she had never believed those rumors.

Trying to ignore the pain in her arms, she glared at Hammel. "I have disagreed with her, but what you are saying is horrible and I do not want to hear it."

"You do not want to hear it?" he mocked her. She noticed that his neck was bleeding, and she wondered at the reason, but then he said something that made her forget everything else. "You no longer have that luxury. I saw them in Elfwine's bedroom. The whore has found a new master, or shall I say an old one."

Haiweth thought she would be sick, and not because of her brother's vile spewings. "In Elfwine's bedroom?" she repeated, looking at Hammel and wondering if he would lie about something like this. "Are you saying they were…"

She did not know how to finish the sentence. They called it _making love_ , but she could not bring herself to use those words, which sounded so pleasant, to describe anything that transpired between Gúthwyn and Legolas.

"I only saw them kissing," Hammel reported, his lips curling, "but had I waited another ten minutes to follow them, I am sure I would have seen him rutting her like a pig."

Haiweth's relief was washed away in an instant by her revulsion. "Stop talking like that! Why do you have to be so crude? It does not become you."

"What does not become me is spending a moment longer under the same roof as them," Hammel retorted, and suddenly he let go of her arms. "So come on, pack your things."

Haiweth did not move.

"Come _on_ ," he repeated impatiently. "It is a three day's ride, but if we travel swiftly we can be there in two."

"A three day's ride _where_?" But Haiweth thought she already knew the answer, just as she already knew she would not be accompanying him.

"To Helm's Deep, of course." Hammel looked baffled that she had needed to ask. "We can find something for you to do there."

"Hammel…"

But he was already turning away from her and picking up her bag, which he had discarded in his last fit of anger. With no rhyme or reason, and certainly nothing in the way of care, he began shoving her belongings back inside, even throwing in Talathdil's note without so much as a curious glance. He took no notice of the ink bottle he had destroyed.

She watched him mishandle every precious thing she owned, and not once did she protest, because she was dreading the moment when she would have to tell him that she would rather die than live at Helm's Deep with him and a bunch of Dwarves.

"I do not know if you will be able to bring all your dresses," he warned, and that was when he at last realized she was making no effort to help him pack. "Haiweth," he ground out slowly, as if she were an infant. "They are going to get married. She will move to the colony. You will have nowhere to go."

 _They are going to get married._ She had known, and yet it still felt like falling, stomach-first, into a cold, icy river. _They are going to get married._

But Hammel was wrong about one thing, and it was time for her to act on the plans she had formed, years ago, when she first began to realize their danger. "I do have somewhere to go," she told him.

Hammel rolled his eyes. "Certainly you could join that foul household, but you do not _want_ to live there, do you."

Just the thought made her skin crawl. "No, but—"

"Then start packing."

"I am not going to Helm's Deep!"

He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her clenched fists and the angry blotches she could feel forming on her cheeks. "What are you talking about? You have no other choice."

"Yes, I do," Haiweth insisted. "I will stay with Éowyn and Faramir."

Her announcement seemed to take him by surprise, and she saw to her irritation that he had never even considered them. As if Faramir had not given him free rein of his library! As if Éowyn had never shown him any kindness over the years! But of course, she thought sourly, such generosities could not be perceived when one's nose was always stuck in a book.

"Éowyn and Faramir," he repeated, as if he had never heard of them before.

"Yes, them," she said impatiently. "I have been living with them since January anyway, so nothing needs to change."

But Hammel was shaking his head. "She will not allow it."

"She does not have to allow it. They do."

"And they will not want to offend her—or have you forgotten that Éowyn is her sister?"

"Of course I have not forgotten," she snapped. Hammel never gave her any credit! "But I have thought about it before, and even if Gúthwyn tries to stop me I am sure Éowyn will…"

Too late, she realized her mistake.

Hammel bore down upon her, that awful expression returning to his eyes. " _You have thought about it before_?"

"I—"

"You _knew_ this was going to happen? You knew—you knew they were—"

"No, that is not what I meant," she tried to assure him, but it was as if he were looking right through her, seeing each and every sign that she had kept from him: all those years of glances and touches, the whispers and smiles, the dinners and dances. The afternoon she had walked in on them together, Gúthwyn bedridden, Legolas saying something that made her laugh. The time Legolas had appeared unexpectedly in Emyn Arnen, and Gúthwyn had looked so _happy_ to see him, and Haiweth had watched them with growing unease…

"You knew," he said flatly.

There was no point in denying it; she could only wonder that he had not spotted it sooner himself. "Hammel, it was obvious—"

A whip-like _crack_ rent the air, but it was not until her head snapped to the side that she realized he had hit her. Stunned, she touched her cheek, which was warm to the touch and starting to sting.

In the awful silence that followed, she heard him draw an unsteady breath. "Haiweth—"

"You hit me." Tears welled up in her eyes as she said it; not because it hurt—it did—but because she had never, not even during the worst of his episodes, imagined that one day her brother's anger would be turned on her.

"I did not mean to," he swore. "Haiweth, I am so sorry—"

"You did not mean to?" Haiweth echoed in disbelief. She tried to look at him, but her vision was so blurred with tears that she could only see the faint outline of a person where he stood. "You _hit_ me. Are you saying you could not control yourself?"

She was not certain, but she thought his voice hitched as he replied, "I never intended—it just happened—something inside of me, it was like it just took over…"

She did not understand a word of his ravings, nor did she want to. Wiping her eyes, she said, "I think you should leave."

"Haiweth—" His features were contorted with anguish, and she wondered if she would ever learn what was tormenting him. "Haiweth, please, I am so sorry—"

"You should go to Helm's Deep," she said in a voice that was far calmer than she felt. "You should go there and… and think about why you are like this. Because I barely know you anymore—why are you so angry all the time? And what about Aldeth? If she displeases you, will you hit her, too?"

"No!" Hammel cried, looking appalled. "I would never do anything to hurt her."

"But you would hurt me?"

He did not have an answer for that, and his shoulders sagged.

"Hammel, I do not understand you," she said, her tears falling once more. "You were not always like this—but now you are scaring me, and you are so cruel to Gúthwyn—"

"She deserves it!"

"No, she does not! And you enjoy it," she added with a grimace. "That is the worst part—you enjoy hurting her. Why? What is wrong with you?"

He recoiled at her words, as if she had been the one to strike him; he did not recover for several seconds. "So you will not go to Helm's Deep," he said stiffly. She shook her head, and something trembled in his expression before he mastered himself once more. "Then we have come to a parting of ways. I will go west. You will go east… to Emyn Arnen or the colony. We may not see each other for a long time."

Haiweth could not speak. Part of her, the girl who had clung to her older brother in the darkest, most terrifying period of their lives, could not bear to watch him leave—but it was a young woman, wiser and less afraid, who would not beg him to stay. For years now, she had known that their paths would one day separate; that the time had come sooner than she had anticipated would not break her resolve.

"Farewell," Hammel said, and then he was gone.

* * *

 **Response to RP911:** Thank you so much for your thoughtful review! It is, as always, a pleasure to read your insights into each character and situation. It's amazing how quickly time passes - I had had the confrontation between Hammel and Gúthwyn in my mind for so long, it seemed to fly right off the pen into my notebook. It really does mark a turning point for Gúthwyn, that she was finally pushed past the point of forgiveness and it was like a switch just went off in her. She's made excuse after excuse for him, long after anyone would, and now she's completely cut him off - which, you're right, will be very surprising to her family! But not unwelcome, I don't think...

(Also, I really enjoyed your comments about Gúthwyn removing the "unconscious burden" of Hammel, and what that might mean for her in her marriage. Legolas will DEFINITELY want a translation.)

In light of your remarks on Haiweth, I'd be very curious to know what you think of this chapter. You hit the nail on the head in describing the conflicting sides she'll have to navigate in the fallout of the last chapter's events.

I'm glad you enjoyed the moment between Gúthwyn and Legolas, I had to give them something before I yanked their happiness away. ;)


	26. Aftermath

**A/N:** Hi everyone, I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter! I had a nasty case of writer's block and have been struggling to fit all the pieces/characters together, as there is a LOT going on in the story at the moment. I am sincerely grateful to **RP911** for providing such thoughtful feedback on my drafts and helping me work through the writer's block!

And now, to (somewhat) make up for the delay, here's a longer chapter than usual...

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-Six**

Gúthwyn stood stock-still as Hammel's footsteps faded, her mind numb, her thoughts reduced to an empty buzzing. The child she had loved was gone; the stranger who had usurped his body and tried to kill her was vanishing into the night. She could still see those wild eyes, those hands reaching for her neck.

"Gúthwyn." Legolas's voice sounded very far away, but in fact he was right beside her, for she felt him gently prize the dagger from her grasp. "Let us sit down. You are hurt."

Yes, she was hurt, and she allowed him to guide her to Elfwine's bed. Only when he left her there to retrieve some washcloths and an ewer did she realize he was referring to her head, not her heart.

"He threw a tankard at me," she said slowly.

"And a full one at that," Legolas answered, his expression grim as he returned with his supplies.

For the first time, Gúthwyn noticed that her right side—her hair, her dress—was damp with something sweet and sour smelling.

Legolas sat next to her, dipping a washcloth into the ewer. "A bath will help. You should take one tonight."

He spoke gently, as a Rider might to a skittish horse, but she did not mind, nor did she protest as he lifted her hair away from her face, as carefully as though he were parting a curtain and did not wish for the light to disturb the room's occupants. When he dabbed the washcloth against her skin, however, she winced and let out a hiss of pain.

"Bruises are already forming," Legolas observed, and his ministrations were now so light she could scarcely feel them.

"He tried to kill me."

"For a moment, I was afraid he would come close." With his free hand, Legolas caressed the uninjured side of her face, thumbing away a tear that had gathered, unnoticed, at the corner of her eye. "What did he say to you?"

 _I saw how you enjoyed it._

She pushed this memory away, reaching for another: the least of his insults, something she could bear to repeat to Legolas. "He called me a whore," she whispered, and her next words were even less audible. "I told him—I told him I never wanted to see him again—" Whatever strength had been holding back her tears deserted her, and suddenly she was crying so hard she could not make another sound.

As she succumbed to her grief, she was aware of Legolas drawing her into his arms, murmuring words that she could not distinguish through the veil of misery. His embrace was her only comfort, and she clung to him in a manner that might have been embarrassing under normal circumstances; yet Legolas did not pull away, and he patiently endured her tears.

Perhaps she would never know how it had happened. When that first crack had formed, what actions of hers might have widened it; whether it had been a slow process, capable of being averted, or if Hammel might as well have been spirited off in the middle of the night and replaced with someone whose heart was filled with malice.

But she did not weep for the man she had just banished from her life. She wept instead for the boy who had been so quiet, yet had seemed, in his own way, to tolerate her affection and had even returned it on occasion. Who had always sworn, with such solemnity, to take care of his sister…

A dreadful chill swept through her body.

"Gúthwyn?" Legolas asked as she went rigid in his arms.

"Haiweth," she whispered, cursing herself for her foolishness.

"Haiweth?" Legolas repeated. "What—" And then he stopped, for he, too, understood.

"I have to—I have to talk to her before Hammel—" Even as she leapt to her feet, she knew she would be too late. What was it Hammel had said to her when he left? Something about Haiweth… He must have gone straight to her, no doubt deriving a vindictive pleasure from being the one to break the news and poison her perception of it.

"Wait." Legolas stood as well. "If he is still with her, he will try to hurt you again. I shall absent myself if Haiweth is alone, but please let me go with you."

Gúthwyn's fingers twitched at her throat before she nodded, and Legolas, looking relieved, followed her outside. They were almost at the end of the passage when Tauriel appeared, evidently searching for them; and if she thought it strange to find them in such a remote corner of Meduseld, none of this was reflected in her expression, which at the moment was quite agitated.

"Lady Gúthwyn," she began, inclining her head, "not ten minutes past Hammel came to our table and insisted on taking Haiweth to her room, against her wishes."

Gúthwyn went utterly still, a heavy weight sinking into her stomach. She was too late—Hammel had gone right to Haiweth while she was weeping in Legolas's arms, and now they would all pay the price.

"I did not think it my place to follow them," Tauriel continued, "but I am concerned about the way he was talking to her, and I thought you ought to be informed. I hope I have not erred in judgment."

"Is he still with her?" Legolas asked, and Gúthwyn became aware of his hand on her arm, gently urging restraint.

"No, he came back alone and left the hall—"

That was all Gúthwyn needed to hear, and with an apologetic glance at Legolas she pulled away, desperate to find Haiweth and undo what she could of the damage Hammel had wrought. As she worked through the crowds in the throne room, trying not to growl in frustration whenever she had to make a detour around a large group, she noticed a gathering storm at the high table—and in the center of it were Éomer and Éowyn, listening to Arwen with somber expressions.

Cutting a sharp turn, she gave her siblings as wide a berth as possible—they would try to call her over, wasting precious time that she did not have. She managed to pass unseen into the other hallway, her stomach in knots by the time she reached Haiweth's door and found it open. Peering inside, she saw first a heap of dresses on the ground, which struck her as odd but was immediately forgotten as she beheld Haiweth herself. The girl was sitting motionless on her bed, one hand on her cheek as she stared at the floor with an expression Gúthwyn could not decipher.

She had to wipe her palms on her skirt before she spoke. "H-Haiweth?"

Haiweth looked up; something in her eyes made Gúthwyn flinch. "You are marrying him," was all she said.

Gúthwyn did her best to nod. "I-I was going to tell you tomorrow…"

"That is disgusting."

This flat pronouncement, and the sudden revulsion that twisted Haiweth's face, made Gúthwyn want to burst into tears. Instead, with a trembling voice, she asked, "Why is it disgusting?"

"You love him," Haiweth said, as if love were an ugly word.

"Yes, I do." This, at least, was something Gúthwyn did not need Cobryn's help to explain. "He is the kindest, most honorable person I know. I have never heard him raise his voice in anger, even when he is provoked beyond toleration. For this, and how wonderful he is with Elfwine and with you and your brother, I have come to love him—"

"I do not want to hear this," Haiweth interrupted.

Because the girl truly looked as though she would be ill at any moment, Gúthwyn fell silent. But she had to keep trying, and so after a moment she said, "He is not the monster you think he is, little one. I know it is hard to overcome your fears, believe me, I know—but if you just gave him a chance, you would see—"

"So you are going to live with the Elves now? With him?"

Gúthwyn strove not to react as Haiweth said _you_ , not _we_ —but both the children, it seemed, would wound her deeply tonight. "Yes, eventually we will go to the colony."

Haiweth let out a harsh bark of laughter. For a moment, she sounded so much like her brother that Gúthwyn knew it would not be wise to press the subject of their future living arrangements. Not tonight.

Seeking another path, one that might bridge the gulf between them, she said, "I am so sorry you found out the way you did. I wanted to tell you both in person, and that was why I did not write while you were with Éowyn and Faramir."

"I already knew," Haiweth said bitterly.

Gúthwyn stared at her in astonishment. "You did?"

"Well, not exactly that you were getting married," Haiweth amended, with an accusing glance in her direction. "But I knew you liked him, even though you denied it. And then I overheard Éowyn and Faramir talking one night about how he had come back from Dorwinion and everything was finally settled. But I did not realize what was happening until today, when I saw you both."

"What do you mean?" Gúthwyn almost dreaded the answer.

"Neither of you could stop looking at the other, for one thing." Haiweth's eyes flashed, and she bunched the fabric of her skirt into her fists. "And Elfwine told me that 'Leggy' has been here for months. That is far too long a visit to not mean something."

Gúthwyn looked at the young woman before her, wondering if those were her own words or a recitation of Gondorian mores. In a startling turn of events, Haiweth had read the signs long before Hammel, who had somehow remained entirely in the dark.

Before she could say anything, Haiweth added, "Hammel had no idea."

Gúthwyn nodded. "He walked in on us… kissing," she said, and her apprehension was swiftly justified by the sudden coldness in Haiweth's eyes. "He was furious and we… argued, and he left."

"He is going to Helm's Deep."

Gúthwyn was not surprised to hear this. "What else did he say to you?"

"I would rather not repeat it." A shadow had fallen over Haiweth's features, and she unconsciously rubbed at her cheek. "It was like he had gone mad. His eyes—there was something wrong with him—"

As she lowered her hand, Gúthwyn noticed that the skin she had touched was a bright, angry red. "Haiweth, did he hit you?" she gasped, rushing forward to get a closer look.

Haiweth shied away, stopping her in her tracks. She would not meet Gúthwyn's eye.

"Oh, little one, I am so sorry," Gúthwyn said, aghast. Truly, she did not know Hammel anymore if he had stooped to striking his sister. "Are you all right?"

Haiweth shook her head, then sniffed. "What is that—why do you have ale all over your dress?"

"Because Hammel threw his drink at my head when he saw me with Legolas," Gúthwyn said quietly.

Haiweth gasped; her eyes darted to Gúthwyn's hair, which was still damp, and then to her face, finally settling on what must have been the beginnings of a bruise. "He threw it at you? And not at Legolas?"

Gúthwyn nodded, but she did not tell Haiweth what else her brother had done. "He was very angry. I am sorry he took that out on you."

"Well, that was his doing, not yours," Haiweth muttered, although the tone of her voice made it clear that she had by no means forgiven Éomund's daughter. "I do not know what is wrong with him."

"Nor do I," Gúthwyn replied sadly, but a knock on the door prevented her from speaking further.

"I thought I better check in," Éowyn said, stepping inside and looking around. "Haiweth, what happened to your dresses? Why are they on the floor?"

These questions, innocuous though they were, had the extraordinary effect of making Haiweth burst into tears.

"Little one," Gúthwyn tried, but it was not she who gave the girl comfort. It was Éowyn who swooped in, Éowyn who was permitted to sit beside her, Éowyn whose arms held her as she sobbed. As Gúthwyn watched her sister console her child, she felt a jealousy such as she had never felt before: a raging, burning monster that consumed her from the inside out, until it was all she could do not to wrench them apart.

"H-Hammel wanted me to g-go to Helm's Deep with him," Haiweth choked out. "H-He just started throwing all of them on the ground… a-and I tried to get him to stop, but he w-would not listen…"

"Why would he do such a thing?" Éowyn asked, casting a quizzical look at Gúthwyn.

Before Gúthwyn could respond, however, Haiweth cried, "Because Gúthwyn is _marrying_ Legolas and no one told us!"

Éowyn's confusion was wiped away in an instant. Carefully, and with another glance at Gúthwyn, she replied, "I am sorry you had to find out in this manner, for I know Gúthwyn desired greatly to tell you in person. Faramir and I would not have withheld this information from you otherwise."

Haiweth pulled back, wiping at her eyes; without looking at anyone in particular, she muttered, "I understand."

"Little one, I know this will take some getting used to," Gúthwyn began, hoping that Éowyn's presence would make Haiweth less irascible, "but Legolas—"

"Do we have to do this now?" Haiweth was almost in tears again.

"No, not right now," Gúthwyn conceded after a moment. "But we cannot avoid the conversation much longer, and it is my fault, for I have already been far too negligent on this account. And I am sure you have questions, or things you would like to say."

Haiweth glowered at the floor, a response undoubtedly politer than the one she would have given if Éowyn had not been watching.

"Well," Gúthwyn said after another lengthy silence had elapsed. "I am sorry this happened the way it did. I wish I had been able to tell you myself. But you are right—it has been a long evening, and we would all be better off with some rest. I hope… I hope you find that things look brighter in the morning."

"I doubt that." The reply slipped from Haiweth as if she could not control it; she quickly pressed her lips back together, but the words could not be retracted.

Gúthwyn hoped Éowyn would say something—in that moment she thought that if her sister could coax Haiweth into accepting the match, she would never again resent their closeness. Yet Éowyn was silent, and when at last she turned to Gúthwyn, it was with a look that said their best course of action was to leave.

"Well, goodnight," Gúthwyn said, feeling rather foolish, and Haiweth did not trouble to answer.

Out in the hall, the two sisters glanced at each other, Gúthwyn trying not to rub at the sore spot on the side of her head. "Come, let us go to your room," Éowyn finally suggested, sympathy in her eyes. "You can tell me everything."

Gúthwyn did not, in fact, tell her everything. When she reached the moment when Hammel had tried to strangle her, she felt her throat close, and she could not go on. Her reluctance was part sadness, part shame—what kind of mother would inspire such hatred in their child?—but gradually it dawned on her that, even if she were to overcome these sensations, she still could not confide in Éowyn.

Hammel had made an attempt on her life. He had called her a worthless whore and accused her of enjoying what Haldor had done to her, something Gúthwyn would never forgive. And yet—if she told Éowyn, Éowyn would tell Éomer. And Éomer, in all likelihood, would murder Hammel on the spot.

She was not supposed to care about Hammel anymore. She had severed all ties with him; their relationship was damaged beyond repair. He deserved to face the consequences of his actions, and yet… even now, when the wounds from his words and deeds were still raw and bleeding, she did not want to see him dead.

And so, when at last she cleared her throat, she told Éowyn only what he had said, leaving out the remaining details of their struggle. She knew she had made the right choice as Éowyn's countenance grew steadily more wrathful, until it looked as if she would have happily slain Hammel herself.

"How dare he," she swore multiple times. "After everything you have done for him and Haiweth—I have never liked the way he treats you, but this is unconscionable! You were right to order him to leave. And he will find no refuge in Emyn Arnen, I can assure you of that."

Gúthwyn did not respond—being right seemed to matter little when she felt so awful. Éowyn's indignation on her behalf was appreciated, but she found herself longing for Legolas's embrace, for his gentle, soothing voice. She did not want to listen to her siblings decry Hammel as a monster, not when she could still see the rage in his eyes as he reached for her neck.

"But what did Legolas say?" Éowyn asked suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"When Hammel made those comments about you and Haldor—and Borogor."

"Oh, no—it was all in Rohirric. He could not understand a word, thank the Valar."

Éowyn gave her a suspicious look, one that had her instinctively bracing herself. "What does he know, exactly, about Haldor and Borogor?" When Gúthwyn did not answer right away, she groaned in exasperation. "Oh, baby sister, tell me you have told him _something_."

"I cannot do this tonight." Gúthwyn was beginning to feel as if her head were trapped in a vise that was tightening with each of her sister's questions. "I mean it," she added as Éowyn tried to argue. "Just—please do not tell him what Hammel said. He knows—he knows enough about Haldor to understand why I do not wish to speak of him…"

"And Borogor?"

"Éowyn, please, I cannot—I cannot do this right now. I need to talk to Legolas about Haiweth, and then we need to talk to her…"

"Well, I would suggest that you wait until tomorrow to approach Haiweth again," Éowyn said after a moment, though the set of her brow warned Gúthwyn that they were not yet finished discussing Haldor and Borogor. "She will need some time to recover from the shock."

"She already knew."

Éowyn looked at her in surprise. "How? Faramir and I said nothing."

"She figured it out on her own." Gúthwyn did not have the energy to repeat the explanation Haiweth had given her; all she added was, "It seems that time has not warmed her to the idea."

"I always thought it odd," Éowyn said hesitantly, "that she is still so afraid of Elves after all this time—or rather, male Elves, since she quite admires Queen Arwen and Legolas's friend Tauriel. But she was just a little girl in Mordor, and I cannot imagine she remembers much of it."

Éowyn had no idea how far from the mark she was. Haiweth might not have been overly fond of male Elves, but Gúthwyn had never seen her shrink from Trelan or Faelon the way she did from Legolas. Yet after so many years of keeping her siblings in the dark about Legolas's resemblance to Haldor, she was not about to awake that particular dragon tonight.

"Could you try talking to her?" she asked instead; she even managed to add, with only a hint of bitterness, "She listens to you."

"I will," Éowyn promised, "but only after you have spoken with her. And I hope by then that my intervention will not be necessary."

Gúthwyn did not agree with her sister's prediction, but since she thought it better to end the conversation on an optimistic note, she merely nodded and suggested that they rejoin the others. They returned to the throne room, where the high table was a sobering contrast to the general merriment of the feast. Legolas, Éomer, and Aragorn were deep in conversation, Legolas's visage troubled, Éomer's gathering thunder. Tauriel sat nearby, not saying anything, but with a straight-backed posture that reminded Gúthwyn of a bird, head cocked, sensing danger. Lothíriel, Faramir, and Arwen were conversing in whispers; only when Faramir glanced up and saw Éowyn did they fall silent.

Gúthwyn went straight to Legolas. Past caring who saw her, she took the seat beside him and slipped her hand into his. He did not say a word as she squeezed all the pain of the last hour into his palm; but across the table, Éomer's eyebrows shot upward, and he asked, "What happened? Legolas told us Hammel walked in on you, and that you fought, but he said it would be better for you to explain."

There was an undertone of barely restrained disgruntlement in his voice, and Gúthwyn could tell that he had tried to press Legolas into giving him an answer, only to be thwarted by a polite, yet steadfast refusal. She looked at Legolas with gratitude, and he nodded, but something in his expression gave her pause.

And then she realized that he had known she would lie to her siblings.

Her insides curdled with shame, and for a moment she could only stare down at her lap, avoiding the others' gazes. The fact that Legolas had anticipated and accommodated her desire for deceit was almost more of a rebuke than anything he could have said. Did he think less of her for her dishonesty? Had it occurred to him that she might be lying to him, too?

"Baby sister, what happened?"

She looked at her brother—so swiftly kindled to wrath, his eyes already burning—and realized she no longer had the energy to repeat the things that Hammel had said to her. Her vision was blurring, either from tears or exhaustion or both, and when she spoke her voice was flat, a blade with blunted edges. "Éowyn can tell you," she said, determined not to look at anyone else—especially not Aragorn, whose grey eyes perceived too much. "I have had enough for one night, and I would like to retire for the evening. Legolas, will you walk with me?"

The request raised more than a few eyebrows, Legolas's included, though he stood without delay and held out his arm.

"Absolutely not," Éomer said, moving as if to block them from leaving. "Someone will see you."

She almost laughed. "Éomer, I am beyond caring at this point. Legolas will escort me to my room, and if everyone in this hall bears witness then so be it."

Something in her voice must have told Éomer not to push her, for he drew back just enough to let them pass. He could not, however, resist warning them, "I will expect Legolas to return in ten minutes."

Legolas assured him that he would, but Gúthwyn was not so charitable, and she walked away without another word. Legolas remained close to her as they passed through the crowd, though he soon released her arm, perhaps as a concession to Éomer. Neither of them spoke. He might have been able to hear her over the din, but with so many potential eavesdroppers she preferred to wait until they reached the privacy of the hallway.

And yet, suddenly, it occurred to her that this privacy was dangerous in its own way. Not a moment ago she had been quick to dismiss Éomer's objections, but the closer she and Legolas came to their destination, the more conscious she felt of the fact that she was leading him to her bedroom. Despite everything else on her mind, she found herself wondering if he was cognizant of this as well, if he was aware that they would next follow this same path on their wedding night.

Her hands shook, and she made a pretense of adjusting her sleeves so that he would not notice. As they entered the relative quiet of the corridor, her palms were slick against her skirts, and she was convinced he could hear her heart pounding.

 _Stop being ridiculous,_ she scolded herself. _You were just alone with him in Elfwine's room. And you have far more important things to be worrying about._

But even the foreboding sight of Haiweth's closed door failed to dissemble her nerves. Her bedroom was open, the candles within beckoning invitingly, yet she knew for her sanity that Legolas could not cross the threshold.

She paused in the doorway, her hand alighting upon the frame as she turned to face him, and he halted as though he were come to a great gate, held fast and tight against intruders. With an uneasy glance at the wall separating them and Haiweth, she said in a lowered voice, "Thank you for not telling Éomer what Hammel did."

"I do not always understand why you harbor secrets from your siblings," Legolas replied, "but given Éomer's temper, I thought it prudent to avoid another confrontation. All the same, I did not do it gladly."

"He would have wanted to kill Hammel," she said with utter certainty.

"I know. Yet I regret that such deceit was necessary."

She looked into his eyes, which were clear and light; there was nothing hidden in their depths, no doors to swing shut and bar the way against her. Whereas she was a fortress, crumbling perhaps, yet still with an intricate maze of locks that even she did not always know how to open.

She would never want Legolas to be like her, and she was ashamed that she had made him complicit in her lies; ashamed that he had not even needed to ask if she wanted to confide in her siblings.

"You can… I do not mind if you wish to tell someone else, like Aragorn or Tauriel," she said, a paltry offering. "It is only my brother…"

"And Gimli?"

Gúthwyn hesitated. Her first instinct was to worry that this might cause problems for Hammel—yet she shoved it down, among all the other things she had to unlearn. Hammel had tried to strangle her; she could not care about any difficulties he encountered as a result. But she also did not want to put Gimli in an uncomfortable position…

"I-I will leave that to your discretion," she murmured, not knowing the right answer. Perhaps such a thing did not exist when it came to Hammel.

Legolas nodded, but he did not speak, and in the silence her guilt swelled. Honesty—that was all he had asked of her…

"I did not tell you everything Hammel said to me," she blurted out.

A smile, soft and sad, ghosted across his face.

"I know," he said.

She had expected him to be surprised—this was far worse. "Y-You do?"

"Aside from the fact that you reduced the entire argument to only a few sentences," Legolas pointed out, before pausing and considering what he was about to say. Gúthwyn's throat ran dry, her pulse leaping beneath her skin.

"You told me he called you a whore," he continued, his gaze holding hers, "but I have seen the way you react when others do the same, and you retreat into yourself. Nay, tonight it was something else that made you press a knife to his throat. He said something so terrible that it overpowered every protective instinct you have towards him."

 _I saw how you enjoyed it._

Legolas was blurring before her eyes. She had never thought Hammel would say such a thing, could never have imagined those words curling from one of the children's lips. It was a betrayal that cut deeper than bone, and hurt even more. And it almost—almost—made her wish Legolas knew everything, so that she could turn to him for comfort.

"I know it is not easy for you to confide in others," he said, "because you fear what they will think of you. But I wish you would trust that my opinion of you will not waver—nothing you say will make me love you any less."

She was already shaking her head. It was impossible; he may have meant it, but that was only because he did not know. "I cannot—"

"I know." Legolas looked at her fingers, curled around the door handle, barring his entrance. "Will you be all right?"

The ease with which he changed the subject, and his lack of resentment at being outside her confidence, made her want to weep. What had she ever done to deserve him? How could he be so kind to her, so patient, without any expectation of reward? Her throat closed, and it required pure force of will to nod. If she could not cry herself to sleep in his arms, then she would do so alone.

"Then it is goodnight." Yet Legolas stepped forward, not backward; and he cupped her cheek, so gently it might have been a breeze against her skin. "I am sorry that things with Hammel and Haiweth did not go the way you planned."

Ever at the ready these days, her tears sprang once more to the corners of her eyes. "Y-You were right. You said I should not have delayed."

Legolas's response surprised her. "Nay, you were right. You had an ill omen about this day."

"Maybe we were both right," she said miserably. "Maybe there was never going to be a good time to tell them. Maybe it was always going to end like this." Hammel gone. Haiweth ready to bolt. Her heart rent in two.

"Tomorrow is a new day," Legolas reminded her. "And I do not believe Haiweth is lost. She just needs some time."

Gúthwyn wished she could have believed him. As she tossed and turned that night for what felt like hours, near all her thoughts were bent on the girl, wondering desperately how to reach her. Yet when she finally fell asleep, her dreams were of Hammel, his fingers grasping endlessly at her throat.

* * *

Legolas watched the door shut behind Gúthwyn, and he heard a single, shaking breath before her footsteps trailed away towards her bed. He knew that it would be hours before at last she closed her eyes, and it grieved him to think of her in there alone, facing the longest, darkest stretch of the night without anyone to comfort her. More than ever he wished that they were already married, so that he would not have had to leave her when she needed him the most.

But that was a permission he had not yet been granted, and he had noticed how uneasy she had looked upon the threshold, her hand resting against the doorframe as if to bar his entry. He wondered if Éomer's warning had affected her more than she had let on, or if it was the memory of Hammel that made her reluctant to be in a room with him again, lest chaos descend once more.

He could not long dwell on the matter, however. When he returned to the high table, Éowyn had just finished filling the others in, and Éomer's eyes were blazing with battle fury. "Hammel said _what_?" he spat as Legolas rejoined them.

"He—"

"No," Éomer growled, cutting Éowyn off. "I will have that monster brought to me, and _he_ will repeat everything he dared to call my baby sister—"

"Éomer, I beg you to reconsider," Legolas interjected. The other man turned in surprise, having not heard his approach. "Gúthwyn sent him away for a reason. She would not want him to come back, not even to face punishment."

Aragorn nodded at him. "Legolas is right, my friend," he told Éomer. "I know you would seek vengeance, but think of how it would affect her. Hammel is gone now, and by all accounts this is what is best for everyone."

Éomer was not so hotheaded as to defy the exhortations of both the king of Gondor and his sister's betrothed, but his shoulders were rigid with anger as he snarled, "Let him flee like a rat to the caves, then! If he thinks to visit that girl of his here, he will find the gates shut against him, that bastard."

Until now, Lothíriel had been observing in silence, her grey eyes keeping their own council. At the word "bastard," however, she stirred and said, "If anyone overhears you call him that, you will only be adding fuel to the fire."

What was left of Éomer's restraint vanished. "A fire that _you_ started!" he roared, so loudly that the noise in the throne room dimmed. Partygoers craned their necks, searching for the source of the disturbance, and Lothíriel turned white beneath her husband's glare. She had jumped when he yelled, and now she was utterly still, like a deer facing its hunter.

The silence at their table seemed to stretch for an age. Éowyn and Faramir were staring, aghast, at Éomer; Aragorn had placed a hand on his arm, the warning unmistakable. Legolas saw Arwen reach out for Lothíriel, only to stop when the younger woman flinched. As the festivities around them gradually resumed their normal volume, Lothíriel rose to her feet, looking at a spot over Éomer's shoulder. "Please excuse me, I am retiring for the evening."

"Lothíriel—" At last, Éomer seemed to regret his outburst, but it was too late. Lothíriel slipped away from the table before he could say another word, and they all saw her shoulders shake as she hurried out of the hall.

Faramir stood as well, and for a moment it seemed as if he would follow her—but then he appeared to reconsider, and he turned back to Éomer with a stern expression. "That was poorly done. She only meant to caution you."

As Éomer reddened, at an uncharacteristic loss for words, Legolas caught Tauriel's eye. She had been sitting quietly at the table, giving no counsel, but at a glance from him she nodded—whatever conversation was about to unfold between Éomer and Faramir, the two of them did not need to bear witness.

Legolas hastily announced his retirement, and he and Tauriel were able to extract themselves, though not before Éomer made Legolas promise that they would speak again on the morrow. By wordless agreement, Tauriel followed Legolas to his guest chambers, where she closed the door behind them and settled into the same stance she used when awaiting orders from his father.

It was the first moment Legolas had had to reflect on the events of the evening, and he realized that he had no idea how to begin explaining the situation to Tauriel, when he was still trying to absorb all that had transpired. Unconsciously, he began to pace; and before long he was back in Elfwine's room, hearing an odd noise that did not fully register until Gúthwyn was torn from his arms. Then she fell, clutching her head, and he realized that they were not alone…

He would never forget the sight of Hammel standing in the doorway, rage contorting his features almost beyond recognition, his eyes the fathomless dark of a night with no stars. Legolas had known that the young man was troubled, and he had been bracing himself for an outpouring of anger, but he had failed to foresee the extent of Hammel's fury, and he was profoundly disturbed by the violence he had witnessed. If he had not been there to step in front of Gúthwyn…

"My lord?"

Legolas realized that he had crossed the room several times without speaking. After apologizing, he managed, not without difficulty, to recount the events of the past hour, watching as Tauriel's countenance went from outraged to horrified.

"I cannot say I expected him to be glad for her, but I wish I had been wrong," he finished with a sigh.

"Was Lady Gúthwyn serious about not wanting to see him again?"

"She meant it when she said it," Legolas replied, "and I believe this will hold true for a long time yet—but I would not be surprised if she relents in the future."

Tauriel raised an eyebrow. "And you will welcome him to the colony with open arms? After what he did?"

"There may come a time when I must, for her sake. But for now he will not be allowed to see her, nor to set foot inside the colony."

"Do you think he will try to?"

Legolas shook his head; if Gimli's reports were anything to go by, Hammel was more likely to burrow deep into the Glittering Caves and shun all contact, human or Elf. "Yet I will ask you to remain vigilant all the same."

"What of his sister?" Tauriel wanted to know. "She does not share his temperament."

"Unfortunately, she is not pleased with the news, either." And yet, unlike her brother, Haiweth could be reasoned with, and there remained a chance that she would come around—or so he hoped, lest Gúthwyn lose both of her children in one blow.

Tauriel regarded him, her brow furrowed. "The Elf you once spoke of to me—the one who hurt Lady Gúthwyn. Did he hurt the children as well?"

"I do not believe so," Legolas said, though not without hesitation. He was fairly certain Gúthwyn would have mentioned something if that had been the case, yet there was still so much she had not told him about Haldor that he was unwilling to dismiss the possibility entirely. "At least, I do not think he hurt them physically. But he terrorized them, that is plain—for all these years later, that shadow has not left them."

Some inner conflict seemed to be working within Tauriel, and she had the look of someone debating whether or not to speak.

"Tauriel?"

Tauriel inclined her head and murmured, "Forgive me, my lord, if I overstep my bounds, but I was observing the children yesterday and I noticed something odd."

"Go on."

"Haiweth spent most of her night at the same table as myself and Queen Arwen," Tauriel said, "and she was perfectly at ease around the two of us—in fact, she seems to greatly admire the queen. This puzzled me, for I remembered Lady Gúthwyn's behavior around other Elves at the feast you hosted, but then I reasoned that perhaps it was only male Elves that the children feared."

Legolas knew where this was going, just as he had always known that the half-truths he had told Tauriel would one day dissemble beneath her keen gaze. Yet still he braced himself.

"But then," Tauriel continued, her uneasiness plain, her reluctance clear, "I watched Haiweth exchange some words with Trelan, and there was no agitation in her expression. It seems that the only one who provokes such a response in her is you, my lord."

A heavy silence fell after her words, thickening as Tauriel realized that no denial would be issued.

"You are right," Legolas said after a moment. "Hammel and Haiweth dislike me in particular because I bear more than a passing resemblance to the Elf who tormented Gúthwyn."

"How much of a resemblance?" Tauriel asked, stunned.

"A strong one," was all Legolas was willing to admit. He knew Tauriel—once her curiosity was aroused, she would not rest until it was satisfied. If she found out that he and Haldor were as alike in appearance as Elrond's sons, she would not be content to bide her time and wait for answers. Already he feared her had told her too much, though it could not be helped. As the captain of Gúthwyn's guard, Tauriel would be privy to some of the most intimate details of their life; and keeping her completely in the dark, aside from being impossible, would hinder her ability to do her job.

Yet still he cautioned her, "I must ask that you keep this to yourself. She does not like to speak of him, and to do so causes her considerable distress."

Tauriel promised, her eyes wide with wonder. "The more I know about Lady Gúthwyn, the less I understand her," she said, and Legolas recalled how amazed she had been to learn that Gúthwyn herself had killed her tormentor.

"Mortals can be… complicated," Legolas replied, "and she moreso than most. There are secrets she has not yet told me."

Tauriel was quiet for a moment, her brow creased. "Is there anything else, my lord, that I should know before she comes under my protection?"

Legolas had previously given some consideration to this matter, but now, with his mind elsewhere, was not the right time to embark upon such a conversation. "We will discuss this later," he said, and Tauriel knew him well enough to incline her head and wish him a good evening.

As the door closed behind her, Legolas sat at his desk and fell into deep thought, sifting through all that had happened in the last hour. Gúthwyn and Hammel's voices argued back and forth, the words indecipherable but the pain and anger radiating from both; and then Gúthwyn flew towards Hammel, the knife shining in her hand.

He wondered if Gúthwyn would ever tell him what Hammel had said, what insult had finally been too much to bear after so many years of turning the other cheek. Long had he known of her reluctance to confide in others; one might sooner wrest a gem from the earth barehanded than extract a full truth from her. Yet he had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that one day the last walls would crumble, and she would realize that he loved her no matter what lay exposed in the aftermath.

It had always been his belief, for as long as he had been of an age to give thought to such matters, that marriage was marked chiefly by an understanding between spouses—a union not only of body but of mind and heart, unbreakable while the world yet endured. There was no greater intimacy, and he had never questioned that one day he would share this with someone, that he would know his partner's every hope and fear. Looking into their eyes, he had imagined, would be like looking into river, with waters so clear that you could see all the way to the bottom.

In Gúthwyn, however, he saw an ocean. Bright and shining one day, dark and turbulent the next; ever-changing and impossible to navigate with any surety. There were depths he had scarcely glimpsed, let alone explored, and at any moment he might founder, lulled by tranquil waters into a sudden storm. It was beautiful, and dangerous, and unpredictable… and his heart had surrendered to it all the same.

He would not force Gúthwyn to tell him what had happened between her and Hammel this evening; nor would he demand that she divulge the extent of Haldor's crimes, not when he had seen how much it cost her to speak of him at all.

But still he wondered, he who had dreamed of clear rivers: _How many secrets shall remain between us on our wedding night?_

When dawn came, he was no closer to guessing the answer.


	27. Aldeth's Dilemma

**A/N:** The next chapter... finally! Thanks again to RP911 for such thoughtful beta reading. :)

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Gúthwyn awoke with a wince; the right side of her head was throbbing, and so sensitive to the touch that even her pillow caused discomfort. She sat up, gingerly probing the sore spot with her fingers, and it all came back to her in a sickening rush: Hammel walking in on her and Legolas. His screams. His hands, reaching for her neck. And those awful things he had said about her, about Borogor, about Legolas—until she had finally snapped and sent him away.

The memories filled her with horror, and sadness, but not regret. She felt no urge to ride after Hammel and plead with him to come back; in fact, she would not have received him even if he had turned around of his own accord. She was tired of tiptoeing around his rage, and she would not forgive him for his cruelty. Not this time.

That left Haiweth, who no longer wanted to speak to her.

With a groan, Gúthwyn forced herself to push back the covers. Whether or not Haiweth would listen, she had to try again. Now, before breakfast, before she even met with Legolas. She knew what the girl was feeling—how many years had it taken her to be at ease around Legolas, let alone trust him? But she had realized his worth in the end, and so would Haiweth, if only she could make her see Legolas the way he truly was.

Determined to succeed, she hauled herself out of bed, threw on a dress, and marched to Haiweth's room, only to find the door open and Haiweth nowhere in sight. Feeling rather deflated, she stared at the empty bed, then reasoned that Haiweth must have gone to breakfast.

As she stepped back out into the corridor, Cobryn appeared. "I was just about to see if you were awake," he said, scrutinizing her. "I have only heard pieces, but I know enough. Are you all right?"

She shook her head. "I need to find Haiweth. Is she at breakfast?"

"No, hardly anyone is." Cobryn paused, then added, "I heard you were the one who sent Hammel away, not Éomer."

"Yes, he—" And then Gúthwyn stopped. Looking at Cobryn, she felt a sudden rush of appreciation for the fact that he was the only person in her life to whom she did not need to lie about what had happened last night. He already knew everything; there was nothing for her to hide. And by the Valar, she wanted to confide in someone.

As usual, he seemed to have read her mind. "Let us search for Haiweth outside, and you can tell me then," he suggested. "But first, Legolas has been waiting for you."

"Oh!"

Gúthwyn looked down the hallway, expecting to see him, but Cobryn shook his head. "Your brother's temper has not greatly improved since last night. Legolas did not think it wise to make another visit to your chambers."

"Ah." Gúthwyn supposed Éowyn had spared no details when relating her version of the story to Éomer, which only confirmed that she had made the right choice to withhold the worst of it. "Well, I will go and see him before we start our search. I do not think he will accompany us."

She was right. When they met in the hall, Legolas made several inquiries about her welfare—looking frustrated that he could not be more thorough in his concern, with so many others nearby—but when she told him of her plans, he agreed that it would be best for her to speak to Haiweth without him.

Gratitude and guilt warring within her, she asked, "And what will you do?"

"I have reason to believe that Gimli is most desirous of an explanation for last night's events," Legolas answered, a faint smile flitting across his face. "But I would also welcome his counsel."

It was possible, Gúthwyn thought, that Gimli had some insight into Hammel's behavior, gleaned from the boy's time in the Glittering Caves; but it was hard to see what good this would do now, after so much pain had already been inflicted. Yet she would not discourage Legolas from seeking his friend's advice, especially when she had failed to be forthcoming with him.

And so they parted, Legolas glancing back at her as he left the Golden Hall, Gúthwyn sighing before she turned away. Cobryn was waiting for her a few tables over, already reading a book; she half suspected he had summoned it out of thin air, but she knew better than to question his ability to acquire reading materials.

Once they were outside, the whole story took nearly a quarter of an hour to unravel, long after a cursory search for Haiweth proved to be in vain. Yet although they did not find the girl, once Gúthwyn had started the tale she could not stop. The words poured out of her like a spring released from winter's icy grip, and as she spoke, Cobryn's countenance became wroth.

"He is lucky you did not kill him," he growled. "Or set Éomer upon him—which I cannot say I would not have done in your shoes."

"Even now, I do not want him dead. But it was a near thing." She did not remember making a conscious decision to launch herself at Hammel with the knife; yet she could still feel the blade in her hands, quivering at his throat as rage coursed through her veins. How could he have said those things to her? How could he have looked into her eyes and tried to kill her?

"Gúthwyn?"

She realized she was rubbing at her throat, and she quickly lowered her hand, but not before Cobryn noticed. "I wish I could understand how it ended like this. How he—how he could have acted the way he did."

"You may never find out," Cobryn said quietly. "He alone can answer for his thoughts, and long has he refused to share these with you."

It was a disturbing notion, not least because it was the likeliest outcome. Yet although Hammel would not speak to her anytime soon— _or ever again,_ a voice warned—she still could not help but wonder if there was a sign she had missed, something that would have told her she was about to lose him. If there was anything at all she could have done to prevent it.

 _I never even got the chance to ask him about his work for the blacksmith,_ she realized suddenly, her stomach dropping. She had been so hurt to discover that he had been doing small jobs for Aldeth's father over the past several years without telling her, and now that was just one more explanation she would never receive.

"Do you regret sending him away?" Cobryn asked.

For a moment, Gúthwyn hesitated—what kind of mother would say _no_? For that matter, what kind of mother would have sent their child away in the first place? But then she reminded herself: she was not Hammel's mother, and he was not her son. He had attempted to strangle her, and he had accused her of enjoying those nights in Haldor's tent. She still did not know which was the worse offense.

"It seems strange that I do not," she finally answered Cobryn, "but I am glad he is gone."

Cobryn nodded. "You made the right choice. He was given plenty of opportunities to correct his behavior, but instead he has grown more bitter with time. Perhaps being forced to make his own way will improve his character."

Gúthwyn could only hope—she shuddered to recall the wild look in Hammel's eyes as he lunged towards her. "You should have seen him last night, Cobryn. He was mad with rage. I truly believe he would have killed me without a second thought if Legolas had not stopped him."

Her voice shook, and her distress must have shown plainly on her face, for Cobryn reached out and squeezed her shoulder—a touch that could not linger, lest it provoke a fresh round of rumors. "You know," he said as he lowered his hand, "Aldeth should be told about this."

"Aldeth?" Gúthwyn echoed, glancing over her shoulder at the blacksmith's. "You mean, why Hammel left?"

"That he tried to kill you."

They were about to ascend the stairs to Meduseld, but Gúthwyn stopped. "Surely she does not need to hear that," she said, surprised by his tone of voice. He had not made any objections when she told him that she was keeping this information from her siblings, indeed acknowledging that Éomer's temper was not likely to improve the situation; she could not imagine why he thought Aldeth should be tormented with such details.

"On the contrary," Cobryn insisted. "If she is considering marrying him, she ought to know what he is capable of."

"But he would never do that to Aldeth," Gúthwyn protested, alarmed. "He loves her."

"Just like he loves Haiweth?"

Gúthwyn's breath snagged. "That… that was different. He only did that because of me, he would never… I mean, not normally… I am sure he was horrified—"

The excuses, for that was what they were, sounded weak even to her ears.

"He slapped her so hard that her face was still red when you spoke to her," Cobryn said sharply. "That may not be how he 'normally' behaves, but the fact remains that he lost control of his anger and attacked both you and his sister. What happens if he and Aldeth have an argument and she says something he does not want to hear? Will he hit her then, too?"

Gúthwyn felt her face draining of color. She did not want to believe it. She did not want to even entertain the thought. But what if Cobryn was right? What if Hammel raised his hand to Aldeth?

Pressing his point, Cobryn asked, "Would you want Haiweth to marry a man who strikes her when he is ill-tempered?"

"No!"

"Do you think Magar would want his daughter to marry someone like that?"

"No," she had to admit.

"Then you need to tell her."

What Cobryn did not say was that he would tell Aldeth if she refused; but she could read it in the set of his shoulders, in the steel beneath his words.

"I will," she promised, although she was already dreading the conversation. She did not know what Hammel had told Aldeth before he left; would the girl even believe her?

But the worst uncertainty of all…

"Do you really think he would do that again?" she asked Cobryn, almost not wanting to hear the answer. "To Aldeth?"

"I do not know," Cobryn said at length, which was better than a _yes_ but not much more comforting. "Yet Aldeth deserves to be warned before she agrees to spend the rest of her life with him."

And what would happen if Aldeth decided not to marry Hammel at all, Gúthwyn wondered. Would Hammel return to Edoras in another fit of rage and try, once more, to kill her? For surely he would blame her. Yet she at least could defend herself, whereas Haiweth and Aldeth had never learned to fight. It was far better for her to face his fury; she had done so before, and she would do so again, albeit with reluctance.

 _Listen to yourself,_ she thought in dismay. _You are treating Hammel as if he is a criminal. Or a wild beast that can only be handled with great caution._

 _But is that so far from the truth?_ another part of her asked.

"Lady Gúthwyn?"

A familiar voice offered a welcome respite from her thoughts; it was Tun, his cloak rippling behind him as he strode towards her and Cobryn.

"Tun!" she exclaimed in surprise. She had not even known he was in Edoras. "What are you doing here?"

"Well"—Tun nodded at Cobryn—"my mother was hinting that I have been remiss in my visits, and Brithwen has been wanting to see her family, so we accompanied my uncle here."

"Were you at the feast last night? I did not see you."

"Ah, no." Tun paused, then explained, "Brithwen was ill."

"Oh, I am so sorry…" Gúthwyn trailed off uncertainly when she realized Tun was smiling.

"She is with child," he informed her.

"Tun, that is wonderful—congratulations!" Gúthwyn waited just long enough for Cobryn to echo the sentiment before launching a volley of questions. "How far along is she? Is everything well? You must be thrilled—are you hoping for a girl or a boy?"

"It has been five months now," Tun answered, and Gúthwyn could not help but feel a pang of regret that this was the first she was hearing about such an important change in his life. They had once been so close… but their paths had diverged long ago, and there was nothing for it but to be happy for her friend. "Everything is well—except for the sickness, but it is usually not so severe, and she thinks the travel made it worse. I confess to hoping for a boy, since I would like to bring him on patrol with me one day, yet I cannot complain so long as he or she is healthy."

Once upon a time, Gúthwyn might have given him mock grief over preferring a son, but now she let it pass without comment. "Of course, that is the most important thing. But what fortunate tidings! I am so happy for both of you."

Tun beamed, yet something in his countenance made her think he had been uncertain about delivering the news to her, and he was now relieved it was over. "What of yourself, my lady?" he inquired. "How have you been?"

Always a step ahead of her, Cobryn had evidently predicted that the conversation would turn in this direction, for he had managed to drift away on the pretense of examining the blacksmith's latest offerings. Gúthwyn glanced over at him and then back at Tun, who was still waiting for her answer.

She told herself that he was long married, and moreover soon to be a father, so it should not have mattered what she said—yet she had a feeling that it would be kinder to tell him now, so that he would not hear of her engagement from someone else.

"Well," she began as brightly as she could, hoping to smooth away any awkwardness, "I have some news of my own. I-I am to be betrothed. Tonight. Éomer will be announcing it at the feast."

Tun did a double take; his eyes widened, and she did not think she was imagining, however small, the flicker of dismay within their depths. "Congratulations," he said quickly. "At least, I hope—I hope it is someone of your choosing…"

Gúthwyn assured him that it was. When she said Legolas's name, however, he looked thunderstruck.

"The Elf? But I thought—"

"What?" Gúthwyn asked when he stopped himself. "I am sure there will be many questions about the match, so please, do not fear my taking offense."

"Well—it is only—" Tun shifted, reddening beneath her gaze. "I did not know you were even on good terms. I thought you had taken a disliking to him."

"That was once true," she acknowledged, realizing how very long it must have been since she had confided in him if he was still harboring this impression. "But no more. I—well, I love him." She blushed as she said it, for she was not yet used to the words.

"Congratulations, my lady," Tun said quietly. "I wish you both the best."

His smile seemed rather fixed, but Gúthwyn pretended not to notice. "Thank you, Tun. I appreciate it."

They stood there for a few seconds, neither sure what to say. Gúthwyn wondered if she should change the subject altogether, perhaps mention that Hammel was returning to Helm's Deep. Before she could speak, however, Cobryn reappeared as suddenly and as smoothly as if by pure happenstance. "Gúthwyn, I have looked around and I do not see Haiweth anywhere—she must still be inside."

Gúthwyn managed not to throw him a grateful look. "I should go," she said to Tun, whose visible relief matched her own. "Please tell Brithwen how happy I am for you both."

"Thank you, my lady. I will."

Gúthwyn decided to make her exit before Tun was forced to repeat similar sentiments for her and Legolas; she did not wish to be cruel, not when he was plainly doing his best to receive the news graciously.

"You seemed to be in need of rescue," Cobryn muttered as they left Tun behind. "Was it that bad?"

"Yes and no—he took it well, but I do not know how much longer we could have continued like that if you had not returned." Gúthwyn sighed, her guilt increasing as she realized that until today, she had not once thought about how Tun might react—not until he was standing right in front of her.

"It is a wonder that Brithwen has not murdered you yet," Cobryn remarked, only half-joking. "He has had more than enough time to move on."

"Yes, well." Gúthwyn bit her lip. "Hopefully parenthood will do them both good."

"Lady Gúthwyn!"

The anxious cry brought them to a halt, and Gúthwyn felt her stomach turning to lead as she looked back and saw Aldeth hurrying towards them. The poor girl was in a state of visible agitation, and the eyes that fixed pleadingly upon her were red from crying.

"I will see you inside," Cobryn said before he slipped away, continuing alone up the stairs.

For a moment, Gúthwyn longed to go with him; then she braced herself and turned around. "Hello, Aldeth—"

"Lady Gúthwyn, I am sorry to bother you," Aldeth said breathlessly, "but you are the only one—who might—who might tell me what happened to him—"

"He has gone back to Helm's Deep," Gúthwyn replied, taken aback. Had Hammel left without so much as a goodbye to the woman he loved? Surely he would have told her where he was going, if only so she would not worry about his sudden disappearance. And for that matter, would he not have taken the opportunity to spew forth his hatred of Gúthwyn, to forever alter Aldeth's opinion of her?

Yet Aldeth was not looking at her in anger—only in supplication, her eyes shining bright with tears. "But I do not understand _why_ ," she whispered, as if her throat were constricting. "Why would he leave so suddenly? Was it—was it something I did?"

Still trying to grasp the fact that Hammel had not told Aldeth anything, let alone blamed his parting on her, Gúthwyn did her best to reassure the young woman that she had done nothing wrong.

"But then why did he leave?" Aldeth pressed.

Gúthwyn glanced around. Given the unpleasant nature of what she needed to tell Aldeth, she did not wish to be overheard, and already they had drawn a few quizzical looks from passerby. It was for both their sakes, therefore, that she reached out and took Aldeth's arm. "Come," she said gently. "Let us go somewhere more private."

Aldeth allowed herself to be led into the Golden Hall, and Gúthwyn pretended not to notice that she was wiping her face with her free hand. Once inside, she brought Aldeth to an empty table and asked Elflede, the nearest servant, to pour her a hot drink.

A quick scrutiny of the throne room revealed no sign of Haiweth—which was probably for the best, since there would have been no opportunity to speak to her. But Cobryn was only a few tables away, sitting down amongst a group of advisors; and while he was already deep in conversation with them, Gúthwyn knew he would be watching to make sure that she told the truth.

Once Aldeth had taken several sips from a steaming mug and regained her composure, Gúthwyn tentatively asked, "What did Hammel say to you when he left?"

"Nothing," Aldeth replied, and her eyes were filled with tears once more. "He just gave me this." And she withdrew from the folds of her dress a slip of parchment, which she handed over to Gúthwyn.

It was all Éomund's daughter could do not to snatch it from her—she could not remember the last time she had seen Hammel's handwriting, and she felt a deep ache inside of her when she saw his familiar, hasty scrawl. Trying to ignore this sensation, she read:

 _Aldeth—I am going back to Helm's Deep. I cannot explain now, but it does NOT mean that I do not love you. We will speak to your father as soon as we are reunited. I promise._ _I will write to you once I reach the Caves. Always, Hammel._

"Speak to your—" Gúthwyn began, and then it dawned on her. "Oh, Aldeth," she murmured, clasping the young woman's trembling hand. "I am so sorry—"

And now her own eyes were blurring, for Hammel had been on the brink of betrothal and she would likely not have learned of it until after the announcement.

 _His doings are no longer your concern,_ she reminded herself sternly. _Your duty is now to Aldeth._

To buy herself time, she looked again at the letter, noticing how deep the ink was etched into the parchment—in more than one place, Hammel's quill had pierced right through to the other side. She wondered how hard he must have been pressing, and if he had longed for his fingers to be squeezing around her neck instead.

A shudder rippled through her, and she let go of Aldeth's hand before the young woman could feel it. "Hammel's departure has nothing to do with you, I can promise you that," she said, swallowing. "He… he can be very guarded with his thoughts, but I know he cares deeply for you."

Hope fluttered within Aldeth's gaze, only to flicker and vanish an instant later. "But he still left," she pointed out unsteadily. "Less than an hour after we… after he agreed to talk to my father…"

Now was the moment to tell her. But her mind seemed to have frozen, incapable of forming thought that could be turned into speech. How, exactly, was she supposed to explain the events of last night without also explaining what had happened so many years ago in Mordor? "Hammel tried to kill me because he despises Prince Legolas" was not the kind of thing one could say without providing any background information, but although she had accepted the necessity of divulging this much, she was not prepared to go any further.

Oh, if only she could wave Cobryn over and give him this unpleasant task! Alas, despite her friend's uncanny ability to find the right words in just about every imaginable situation, she could not avail herself of his services—she would have to forge on by her own inferior means.

"I am afraid I must apologize to you," she at last said to Aldeth, "for it was… a quarrel between him and I that resulted in his departure."

"A quarrel?" Aldeth repeated in bewilderment.

"Yes. I… well, I am sure you have noticed that Legolas—Prince Legolas—has been the king's guest since the spring."

Aldeth nodded, but no sudden connections formed in her brown eyes. Not everyone in Edoras, it seemed, had known before Hammel and Haiweth.

"Well, Legolas… Prince Legolas… and I are to be betrothed. It will be announced at the feast tonight."

Aldeth gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Oh, Lady Gúthwyn! And he is an Elf—just like King Elessar and his queen! I did not realize…" She regarded Gúthwyn in wonder, then blushed, realizing she was staring. "I-I mean to congratulate you, my lady…"

Gúthwyn thanked her warmly, relieved beyond measure that Hammel had failed to poison this kindhearted young woman against her or Legolas. "The only reason it has been kept secret until now is because I wanted to tell Hammel and Haiweth the news in person," she said, drawing with great reluctance to the point. "Unfortunately, Hammel found out last night before I could tell him, and he was… quite upset."

Understanding smoothed away the lines in Aldeth's brow, leaving sympathy in its wake. "Because he was not expecting it?"

If only they could have stopped there! But while Hammel had kept Aldeth in the dark thus far, there was no telling what he might eventually reveal—or what falsehoods he might lay against Legolas or herself. And since she currently had Aldeth's good opinion, she had no intention of losing it, which meant that the young woman would have to hear her version first.

"That was part of it, yes," she began, running her hands over her skirts to conceal the fact that they were trembling. She wished she had thought to ask Elflede for a second hot drink—anything to calm her jittering nerves. "But… well, to be perfectly honest, he has never liked Legolas, and he was furious when he discovered that we were… together."

Poor Aldeth now looked more bewildered than ever. "Why does he dislike Prince Legolas? I thought—I thought Elves were good? I mean…" She colored, suddenly unable to meet Gúthwyn's eyes. "Of course they are, my lady, if you are marrying him, I should not have—"

"No offense was taken," Gúthwyn assured her. "I know it is unusual for an Elf and a mortal to wed, and I am glad you are inclined to think well of Legolas, for he is indeed 'good,' and it is not his fault that Hammel dislikes him. Yet nor is it Hammel's."

Aldeth absorbed this information, her frown deepening. "Has there been a misunderstanding?" she ventured, in the tone of someone who did not know what else to say.

 _By the Valar, could Hammel really have told her nothing?_ Gúthwyn knew all too well how secretive he was, and she could hardly complain that he had not let his hatred of her influence Aldeth, but she was nevertheless stunned by how completely he had deceived her. Was that his idea of love, sparing her the worst of himself?

Just to make sure, she asked, "Has Hammel told you anything about… about the time before he and Haiweth came to Edoras?"

 _If she even knows that time exists,_ she thought an instant later, but to her relief Aldeth did not appear taken aback.

"All he has told me is that… is that you are not his mother," Aldeth said, almost apologetically. "But he would not say where he was before."

Gúthwyn took a moment to determine what this meant in terms of what she ought and ought not to reveal. She was certainly not going to discuss Mordor; apart from her own unwillingness to do so, there was no need to cause further conflict between Hammel and Aldeth, considering what else she had to say.

"I think," she began carefully, "that I will respect his wishes in that regard. All I will say is that it was a very difficult time for him and Haiweth, and it is the source of his present anger towards Legolas, though Legolas himself has never caused him offense. I am sorry, but that is all I can explain."

The furrows in Aldeth's brow had eased only a fraction, though at least she seemed convinced that this was the real, albeit incomprehensible, reason for Hammel's departure. "So there is… nothing wrong with Prince Legolas?" She then blushed, presumably because she had dared to question the king's sister in such fashion, but Gúthwyn was already shaking her head.

"There is nothing wrong with him. I would never let him around Hammel or Haiweth if I had any doubts concerning his character."

Aldeth looked relieved. "But Hammel… it is not his fault, either?"

"It is not," Gúthwyn confirmed. "I can go no further on this matter, though Hammel may choose to tell you himself one day. In the meantime, however, there is something else I need to discuss with you, and I am afraid it is unpleasant."

Aldeth paled a little, but nodded.

"I told you that Hammel was furious when he found out that Legolas and I intended to marry. The truth is…" Gúthwyn could not help it: she shuddered at the memory, seeing once more the fire in Hammel's eyes as he reached for her throat. "He flew into a rage, threw a tankard at my head, tried to… to attack me, and then quarreled with Haiweth and slapped her."

Aldeth blinked at her for a moment, not understanding; then Gúthwyn saw the slow, steady, drip-drip impact of her words as all the color drained from the girl's face. "What?"

In response, Gúthwyn pulled back her hair, angling the right side of her head so that Aldeth could see the blues and purples blossoming like ink over her skin. She had looked at it in the mirror earlier and knew that it was not a pretty sight; and it still hurt, a low, constant throbbing that seemed to run in tandem with her heartbeat.

"Hammel did that to you?" Aldeth whispered, horrified. "A-And to Haiweth?"

Gúthwyn let her hair fall back; Aldeth did not need to keep staring at the marks, nor did she want anyone else to see. "He did not leave any bruises on Haiweth," she said, as if that were supposed to be comforting. "She was not seriously hurt, fortunately. But she was quite upset."

"But there must be…" _A mistake_ , Aldeth would have said, but her eyes darted to Gúthwyn's hair and the words fell from her lips. "Hammel is not like that. I swear it. I have never seen him angry—except for with Wulfríd, but Wulfríd was so awful to him, he deserved it. But he would not—I know he can be odd sometimes, and he is not like the other boys his age, but that does not mean there is something wrong with him!"

As she spoke, Gúthwyn got the feeling that this was not the first time she had defended Hammel, that she had made similar speeches to her friends. But now she sounded less convincing, and she was looking almost pleadingly at Gúthwyn when she finished. "He has never acted this way around me, my lady. I promise."

"I believe you," Gúthwyn said, her heart aching for this poor girl. "Or rather, I believe that he has taken great care not to show you this side of him. Because there is something wrong with him, though I wish it were not so."

Aldeth's grip on her mug tightened, and she looked close to tears again. "I-It is kind of you, L-Lady Gúthwyn, to… to tell me this…"

"I fear it is not kind at all," Gúthwyn replied, "and I would not have wanted to lay this burden upon you, but someone whose advice I value insisted that you deserved to know. Before you—before you made a decision about your future with Hammel. They asked me how I would feel if you were Haiweth, or—or my own daughter. And Aldeth, I have to tell you"—she had not intended to say this, but it burst from her like a breaking dam—"if Legolas had not been there to stop him, I think he would have killed me."

"No." Aldeth's response was immediate, vehement. "No, he would not—that is not true—" She started shaking her head and would not stop, as if something had broken within her. "Hammel is different—but he would not—"

"Did you see him yesterday?" Gúthwyn asked quietly. "Before he left?"

"Yes," Aldeth replied, still shaking her head, "but—"

"And how did he seem to you?"

"He… He was upset, but he would not tell me why. He just kept saying he had to go—and then he gave me the note—"

"Did you look into his eyes?"

Gúthwyn knew she had hit her mark when Aldeth went still. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

"I only heard about what he did to Wulfríd," Aldeth finally replied, her voice faint. "They said he went wild with anger, and I always thought they were exaggerating…"

She looked to Gúthwyn, still hoping for a denial—but Gúthwyn was remembering that afternoon, remembering Hammel wiping his bloodied hands on Wulfríd's shirt, and wondering how she had not seen it for what it was: a warning.

Her silence was a final blow to Aldeth, crushing the young woman's spirit—her shoulders slumped, and she did nothing to stop the tears now streaming down her face. Out of the corner of her eye, Gúthwyn saw Elflede approach, ready to inquire if her lady needed assistance, but she shook her head. If there was any comfort to be given to Aldeth, it was her duty to provide it.

"For what it is worth," she said, "I do not seriously believe he would ever hurt you. And I know he did not mean to hurt his sister."

She was telling the truth—despite what Hammel had done to her, despite the cruel delight he seemed to take in tormenting her, she did not for one second think that he desired to do the same to Aldeth or Haiweth—but as she spoke, she heard Cobryn's voice in her head, asking why she was making excuses for him.

Aldeth seemed to be waiting for more; when this was not forthcoming, she ventured, "And you, Lady Gúthwyn? You said… but surely—it must have been a passing… he did not—he does not really wish you dead?"

Gúthwyn's hand unconsciously rose to her neck. "Hammel and I have a… complicated relationship. He blames me for things that happened when he was younger, before… before I brought him and Haiweth to Rohan. So yes, he—he very much meant to do what he did to me."

At first, Aldeth did not respond; only a blank sort of horror in her eyes indicated that she had registered anything at all. Unable to help it, Gúthwyn glanced over at Cobryn, knowing he was still watching them. He gave her a grim nod, a small assurance that she was doing the right thing, and she sighed before turning back to the young woman.

"What now?" Aldeth asked bleakly, more to the table than Gúthwyn. "What am I supposed to do now?"

She looked so lost, so forlorn, that Gúthwyn's heart ached for her. The poor girl had no mother, perhaps no one to confide in when it came to love—certainly not Magar, taciturn as he was. For a moment, Gúthwyn imagined herself filling that role, taking Aldeth under her wing and offering wisdom to her future daughter-in-law.

"I think," she began, before wondering just what sort of wisdom she could possibly have, when she could not even figure out why Hammel was so angry with her in the first place. But Aldeth looked up so quickly, so hopefully, that she plunged ahead anyway. "I think, perhaps… you ought to take some time to consider all that I have told you, for I know how sudden and overwhelming this must all seem. And if you wish, you can write to Hammel and learn his account of things. Then you will have to decide what you want to do with this information."

It was not the most comforting advice, but it was the best she could do, and Aldeth seemed to understand that there was only so much that could be said under the circumstances. She left not long after, promising Gúthwyn that she would think about all that she had learned. Gúthwyn watched her go, wondering what would come of it; and then she remembered that she still had to talk to Haiweth.

 _By the Valar,_ she thought, her head dropping into her hands, _will this day ever end?_

Her temples throbbed in response. Already exhausted, she rose from the table and went in search of Haiweth.

* * *

 **Response to Mia in the Tower:** Thank you for your comment! Yes, at this point Éomer is just as guilty as Lothíriel. I'm afraid he's shown abusive tendencies long before the breakdown of their marriage - for instance, when Gúthwyn disobeyed him by entering that tournament in The Horse and the Swan, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her so hard she almost had whiplash. I've always been aware of the fine line I've had him walking with his temper, and it's possible that I've strayed too far from his characterization in Tolkien's canon. But given how thoroughly he lost control of himself in _The Return of the King_ , I would find it difficult to believe that those issues never crossed over into his personal life.

I can assure you that his attack on Lothíriel was never about punishing her for the readers' benefit; I failed to write the chapter properly if that is how it came across. Most readers, or at least the ones who commented, were rightfully appalled by what he did. I agree with you, though, that the aftermath of this scene could have been handled more adeptly. I rewrote the chapter from Lothíriel's viewpoint more than once and was never fully satisfied with the result. I think you're right, that it focused too much on Gúthwyn instead of Lothíriel's trauma. On top of that, the storyline has had to take a backseat as Gúthwyn, Legolas, and Hammel's confrontation unfolds. So that was something I should have planned better.

Although Lothíriel and Gúthwyn's reactions to their experiences have some similarities, especially immediately afterwards for Lothíriel, there are some notable differences that will become more pronounced over time. You are absolutely right that Gúthwyn would never support what Éomer did, regardless of how he justified it; her finding out would cause a serious breach in their relationship.

Thank you again for taking the time to comment - I very much appreciate your feedback.


	28. Convincing Haiweth

**A/N:** So... embarrassingly, I just went to update this story and updated _The Lady's War and the Gentleman's Engagement_ instead. My sincere apologies for the confusion/senior moment, and thank you to Tibblets for pointing it out!

Additional (and major) thanks are also due to RP911, whose feedback and suggestions were an incredible help on this chapter! Not to mention the patience required with my writing "schedule"...

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-Eight**

With most of Edoras's population in various states of recovery the morning after the feast, it was not difficult for Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli to find a secluded location in which Legolas could explain to them what had happened that night. Aragorn and Gimli had brought their pipes with them, but these were gradually lowered in consternation, until at last even the smoke had dissipated.

"And he would have killed her if you had not been there?" Aragorn asked quietly.

Legolas nodded. "There is no doubt in my mind."

Gimli was uncharacteristically silent, but his somber expression indicated that he was in deep thought, and Legolas did not press him for a response.

"Arwen said she was worried for Haiweth when Hammel took her away," Aragorn remarked, his grey eyes troubled. "She feared for the girl's safety and would have gone herself to investigate had Hammel not returned when he did."

"She was right to be concerned," Legolas said heavily. "Gúthwyn told me that he struck Haiweth when they argued. He was not in control of his temper."

"That does not bode well for him." Aragorn's expression grew stern. "If he is not able to rein in his impulses, he will find that others are far less forgiving than Gúthwyn."

"And now the lad returns to my halls," Gimli said, his sigh like a gust of wind through the trees. "When he took his leave of me, I was none the wiser as to what had happened—perhaps if I had known, I would have been less concerned for him."

"Nay, Gimli, I think the best place for him now is in the caves, where he can work quietly without harming others," Legolas replied. "Under your eye, he can cause little mischief."

"I hope you are right," Gimli said, "but all the same, it is a bad business. He will not forget his hatred of Gúthwyn just because they are apart."

"Then let it smolder in your forges, with the hope that it will eventually burn itself out."

Aragorn shook his head. "It may be that all you can do is contain it."

Legolas thought Aragorn had the right of it—yet for Gúthwyn's sake, he had to believe that there was a possibility Hammel might one day change for the better, impossible though it now seemed.

"Do you think this has aught to do with Mordor?" Gimli asked then, turning to Legolas. "His moods do not seem natural—and he was in that land for three years."

"As were Gúthwyn and Haiweth," Legolas pointed out. "Neither of them succumbed to rage the way he did."

"Yet nor are they unaffected."

Legolas locked eyes with Aragorn; it had not escaped his notice that his friend had said _are_ instead of _were_. Aragorn did not elaborate, however, merely giving him a look as he put away his pipe.

Not long after, Gimli returned to the Golden Hall in search of breakfast; by unspoken agreement, Legolas and Aragorn remained where they were. Some of the Eorlingas were beginning to emerge, bleary-eyed, from their homes, but they paid little attention to the king of Gondor and his Elven companion as they went about their business.

"Gúthwyn and Hammel were arguing in Rohirric," Legolas said at length, "so I did not understand what they were saying."

Aragorn glanced up, his grey eyes alert.

"Afterwards," Legolas went on, drawing at last to the matter that had continued to trouble him since last night, "she told me it was him calling her a whore that had undone her composure and provoked her into attacking him."

By now, Aragorn could glean just as much information from Legolas's tone as his words. "And you think she may have been concealing the truth."

"She confessed, when I walked with her to her room, that she had not been forthright," Legolas replied, "but that she was not yet ready to explain. And this did not surprise me, for she had said the same about Haldor—that there were some things she could not bring herself to discuss, even now."

"The two might be related," Aragorn suggested. "Hammel's dislike of you stems entirely from the memory of Haldor, and not anything you yourself have done. Perhaps he reminded her of one of Haldor's cruelties, and that was what upset her."

Legolas had surmised as much on his own; unfortunately, he would not have put it past Hammel to taunt Gúthwyn in such a way, loathe her as he did. "I only wish that she would confide in me," he said at length, recalling with sadness how ashamed Gúthwyn had been when she said that she could not. "She fears I will think less of her for what he did to her, when that could not be farther from the truth."

Aragorn was quiet, but something in his expression made Legolas ask, "Do you have a guess as to what it was?"

"Only a guess," Aragorn replied after a pause, "and if I am correct then it is something Gúthwyn must tell you on her own."

Legolas longed to press the matter further, but in the end he held his tongue. He did not want to prize apart Gúthwyn's secrets before she was ready to reveal them.

"The question I would ask you," Aragorn went on, fixing him with a sharp gaze, "is if you are prepared to marry her without knowing the truth."

"I am." Legolas's answer was swift and unhesitating; whatever Haldor had done to Gúthwyn was not her fault, and it would not change what he felt for her in the least. He only wished that she would understand this, and that she would not be ashamed of the torment she had suffered.

Aragorn nodded, his brow furrowed in thought, and the two friends lapsed into silence. Legolas found himself remembering how much it had cost Gúthwyn to tell him about Haldor forcing her to eat her own bile—his stomach turned at the thought—and he wondered how anyone apart from the Enemy could continue to exert such control over someone so many years after their passing.

 _Who was Haldor?_ he thought, not for the first time and not for the last. How could someone look so much like him, and yet be capable of such evil? Should he not have sensed Haldor's existence somehow, instinct or premonition warning him of this malevolent being that shared his appearance? Was there really no other connection between them?

Thranduil had denied having a second son, and Legolas believed him; the other possibility, that Haldor was his true father, he could not seriously entertain. Yet that left him at the trail's end, with no paths he could pursue without bringing Thranduil's scrutiny upon Gúthwyn.

Thinking of his father distracted him, and he wondered where Thranduil was right now, on the day of his only son's betrothal. Even though he knew the answer was nowhere near Rohan, he found himself glancing at the road, which was desolate and empty. Not so much as a dust cloud did his eyes perceive.

He told himself that it was useless to hope, that his father was not one for trifles; he would not have told Legolas he was visiting Dale, only to surprise him weeks later in Edoras. Besides, for all Thranduil knew, the betrothal had been announced yesterday—he would already have missed it.

And he had not even sent a letter.

"You search for your father." Aragorn's words were half question, half statement.

"In vain, I can assure you."

Legolas was unable to fully mask his disappointment, and Aragorn gave him a sympathetic smile. "He will regret not coming, even if he does not tell you."

"You are always optimistic where my father is concerned," Legolas said, watching a stray bird soar across the plains.

"Because I know he loves you," Aragorn answered, "and in time he will learn to accept Gúthwyn for your sake."

"Accept?" Legolas repeated wryly. "Merely tolerating her would be an improvement."

Aragorn's conviction did not waver. "Like Gúthwyn, he needs time. He will come around."

Legolas wanted to believe him. Thranduil had, no matter how reluctantly, given his consent to the marriage—was it so impossible that he might eventually forgive Legolas his choice of bride, and perhaps even bring himself to be civil to her?

But no hooves sounded upon the road to Edoras; there was no far-off glimpse of a fluttering standard, no cry from an alert watchman. The guests for tonight's feast were already within the city walls, and no last-minute party would swell their numbers. On what should have been one of the happiest days of his life, his father had chosen not to be there.

And his absence said more than words ever could.

* * *

Having had no luck at finding Haiweth all morning, Gúthwyn decided on a whim to stop by Éowyn's chambers—and there she was displeased to hear two sets of female voices emanating from behind the closed door.

 _Has she been here all this time?_ she wondered, trying to listen in. But the conversation was too muffled for her to make out, apart from the occasional mention of her own name.

It rankled her to realize that Haiweth had sought Éowyn's counsel while she was roving through the streets on a vain search, and without thinking she rapped sharply at the door, then entered the room before Éowyn had granted her permission.

"There you are," she said to Haiweth, who had stiffened in the manner of someone receiving an unpleasant surprise. "I have been looking all over for you. We need to talk."

Haiweth cast her eyes downward, as if she would make a study of the table at which she and Éowyn were seated. "I do not—"

"I will leave you two," Éowyn said just then, and Haiweth's head snapped up in horror.

Still smarting from the discovery that Haiweth had been hiding away with Éowyn all this time, Gúthwyn did not trouble to thank her sister; but Éowyn must have noticed her irritation, for she slowed as she passed Gúthwyn and murmured, "Be careful. She is quite upset."

 _Oh, really, I had no idea,_ Gúthwyn thought, although her heart did soften when she noticed how red Haiweth's eyes were.

The door closed behind Éowyn, and Haiweth crossed her arms, turning the other way. Her cheeks were pale; unlike Gúthwyn, the mark of Hammel's rage had not lingered.

Taking the seat once occupied by Éowyn, Gúthwyn said, "I know you are upset. I know you have never trusted Legolas or liked him. But he is—he will be—in our lives from now on. Please look at me."

Haiweth obeyed, more out of surprise than by conscious choice, and at last their gazes met.

"Can you give him a chance?" Gúthwyn asked.

Haiweth was silent, apart from the rustling of her skirts as she fidgeted beneath Gúthwyn's stare.

Changing tack, Gúthwyn asked, "Do you think Legolas will hurt you?"

Nothing.

"Do you think he will hurt me?"

"I do not know," Haiweth finally whispered, as though it were an effort to say this much.

"Have you ever seen him do anything to hurt either of us?"

"No," Haiweth admitted after a long pause.

"If he did not look like Haldor, would you have any concerns about him?"

"I do not know." Haiweth was blinking back tears. "But he _does_ look like him. And you are marrying him anyway, as if it does not matter!"

"Of course it matters!" Gúthwyn cried, her mouth dropping. "It has always mattered. I have never forgotten his resemblance to Haldor, and even now, even though I am marrying him, there are still some things… some things…"

"Like what?" Haiweth asked, her words sharp and jagged as the unforgiving peaks of Emyn Muil.

For a moment, Gúthwyn hesitated; all she could think of was her wedding night, and she would not tell Haiweth about that.

" _Gúthwyn_." The whites of Haiweth's eyes were flaring, and too late Gúthwyn realized she had steered them towards a precipice. "What are you talking about? What things?"

"I just meant"—Gúthwyn was carefully selecting each word, like a housewife inspecting produce at the market—"that there are things that still bother me, even though I know better."

Haiweth continued to watch her expectantly. "What things?"

 _Not the wedding night. Not the wedding night._

She scrounged for an alternate truth, reaching into corners and sifting through scraps of memories, until at last she latched onto something safe. "Well, a few weeks ago, Legolas asked if I wanted to spar with him. We never have, and it was the first time he had even suggested it—but the instant he asked, a part of me just tensed up, and I knew that if we did I would only see Haldor attacking me. It is foolish, but I cannot control it."

"You are still afraid of him," Haiweth said, aghast. "How can you marry him?"

"But I am not afraid of him," Gúthwyn hastened to correct her. "Not anymore. It is only the echo of Haldor I fear, and that is not Legolas's fault. If we did spar, he would have done everything in his power to set me at ease." Haiweth looked unconvinced, so she added, "I was horrible to him for so long, and still he treated me with kindness, when anyone else would have lost their patience. You were very young back then—you would not remember all the ways he tried to make amends, to distance himself from Haldor. He asked for my permission before he visited Rohan for the first time, and he only used the training grounds after I agreed to it."

"But why did he have to come at all?" Haiweth pressed, unable—or unwilling—to disguise the bitterness in her voice.

"Because we agreed to be friends," Gúthwyn replied, recalling a distant evening in Minas Tirith, summer in the air and lanterns twinkling against the blue-ink sky. Herself, watching the dancers from a small bench, Haiweth warm and heavy in her arms. And then Legolas had approached, and tentatively asked if he might sit. "He said he would understand if such a—a gift, he said, meaning my friendship—were too much for me to give. But I knew that shunning him would only be letting Haldor tighten his hold over me, and it was so strong already. I thought it would be better—for all of us—if we could leave him in the past, and in order to do that we had to move forward."

 _And look where that brought us._ She had come to trust Legolas, to enjoy his company, to love him—but Hammel and Haiweth had fallen behind, their hands slipping from hers as she continued down the road alone.

"I do not see how we were supposed to 'move forward' when he was constantly visiting us," Haiweth replied, and Gúthwyn heard the effort it was costing her to remain calm. "We had to see him all the time. How was that better?"

There was little point in disputing the accuracy of "all the time," though Legolas had made no more than a couple of visits to Rohan per year—she knew, because each of them had been an upheaval in her life. Instead, she sighed. "In this I failed you and your brother. Despite my resolve to look past Legolas's resemblance to Haldor, I could never bring myself to force you to spend more time with him than you had to, because I understood your reluctance all too well. And so to you he remained the enemy, and you never saw him as I did."

"I saw him well enough, thank you," Haiweth retorted, folding her arms across her chest.

Gúthwyn shook her head. "You saw only what you believed him to be—and I do not blame you, for that is how I saw him once. But it is a person's actions, not their appearance, that tell the truth of who they are. I remember everything Haldor did to me, though I wish I did not, and I remember all that Legolas has done for us, and there is no overlap. None. For one thing, Haldor would never have asked if I were comfortable with his visits." She almost laughed at the very idea. "He would never have hung a banner of Rohan in my bedroom at the colony—he would have tried to twist every memory of my home into something unpleasant."

And he had nearly succeeded, turning her against Théoden and damaging their relationship to the extent that it had never fully recovered before her uncle's death. Not wanting to dwell on this, however, she said, "And he would never have removed meat from his table upon learning of my distaste for it."

Haiweth's grey eyes flickered with confusion. "What?"

"Well, you only went to the colony once," Guthwyn said, "so you may not have noticed—but the only time he ever served meat was during the feast, when all the other guests were there. Yet on every other occasion when we joined him for a meal, he had—"

"Oh," Haiweth said, her expression clearing. "I did notice. But I thought that was how Elves ate."

"As far as I know, they enjoy meat as well as anyone," Gúthwyn replied, thinking of that awful lunch she had had with King Thranduil, and how many dishes had paraded before her until he realized she was not partaking. "But Legolas saw—without my even telling him—how much it bothered me. And he made sure that I would not have to encounter it at his table."

Haiweth seemed to be absorbing this, and Gúthwyn started to hope her point was sinking in—but then the girl shot her a quizzical look. "I never really understood why you hate meat so much."

It was a question, not a statement—and having already bared this part of herself to Legolas, it was surprisingly easy for Gúthwyn to cobble together an abridged version. "Because when Haldor found out that I did not like the foul meat they were giving us in Mordor, he forced me to eat it until I was sick."

Haiweth gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as if she herself had become ill. "He did?" she whispered, horror-struck. "I-I had no idea…"

"Because protecting you and your brother in Mordor meant not just keeping you safe from danger, but also keeping you unaware of what was happening around you," Gúthwyn replied, a lump forming in her throat. "You are older now, but this is still not something I share lightly. I only wish… I only wish for you to see the differences between Legolas and Haldor. Legolas went out of his way to accommodate my discomfort; Haldor used it to torture me."

Haiweth was too taken aback to respond—she was staring at Gúthwyn in a way that made her anxious, made her desperate to change the subject so she would not have to wonder what the girl was thinking about her. As if she could disperse the memories lingering in the air between them, she rushed to say, "But what truly made me see the difference between them was Elfwine. Haldor only ever saw you and Hammel as tools he could use against me—he had no other interest in you, and I have no doubt he would have hated Elfwine. But Legolas was so patient with him. He spent so many hours telling him stories, and he used to carve toys for him, all those horses and soldiers for his army…"

She trailed off as something stirred within her subconscious. "No, that is not quite true," she said, half to herself, amazed that she had almost forgotten. "Haldor did carve something. For Hammel. A doll." Haiweth started, as if she were about to speak, but Gúthwyn went on, "It had a hole in its eye. And he carved an arrow so it would fit perfectly within, as a warning to me."

"I saw that doll," Haiweth whispered, looking nauseous. "Hammel still has it."

Gúthwyn stiffened, as if a cold finger had just been placed against her spine. "What?"

"At least, he did when he first came to Emyn Arnen," Haiweth corrected herself, though an uneasiness lingered in her expression. "I found it when I was… er… snooping in his desk to see if he had any letters from Aldeth, because I wanted to know if they had kissed."

She darted a quick glance at Gúthwyn, expecting a reprimand—but Gúthwyn distinctly recalled warning her about respecting her brother's privacy on more than one occasion around that time, and she did not see the point in giving a lecture about a transgression that had occurred so long ago, back when things were so different. "He had it in his desk," she prompted Haiweth.

"Yes, I did not know what it was at first. It was strange, it had these… these black marks on its legs…" She looked to Gúthwyn for an explanation, but Gúthwyn had no idea what she was talking about. "Yet the longer I stared at it, the more certain I was that I had seen it before. It must have been in Mordor, then. But I did not remember that… that he had made it."

 _She cannot even say his name,_ Gúthwyn realized then, gazing at Haiweth in wonder. She had once been so sure that she had shielded the children from the worst of Mordor—she vividly remembered insisting to Cobryn that they were fine, and ignoring his suggestions to the contrary—but Hammel had turned into something unrecognizable, and Haiweth was starting to show scars of her own.

"I checked all of the toys that Legolas carved for Elfwine," she said, and Haiweth blinked, startled out of a memory. "I checked all of them, and there was nothing, because Legolas would never hurt a child like that. Elfwine had the measure of him so much sooner than I, blinded as I was by fear and prejudice. It was not until I watched them together and saw how gentle Legolas was with him, even when he was being difficult, that I at last understood what a fool I had been to doubt his character. In fact, the moment I fell in love with him, I was thinking about what a good father he would be."

She felt rather embarrassed, saying it aloud; certainly it did not help that Haiweth's expression went perfectly blank, as if refusing to acknowledge that she had heard it.

"If all you wanted was children," Haiweth said slowly, long after Gúthwyn's voice had petered off into silence, "why could you not just marry Cobryn? He used to read to Elboron all the time, he must want children too, and obviously he cares for you—"

"Cares for me as a friend, yes," Gúthwyn acknowledged; "as a sister, even. But for all that he does not love me, not in the way that a husband would love a wife."

"Does it matter?" Haiweth asked, and Gúthwyn thought she heard a slight edge in her voice. "In Gondor there are plenty of matches made for money, or for connections, and most of them are happy enough. You and Cobryn are already friends, and you could even live in Rohan."

Gúthwyn was almost too astonished for words. To hear Haiweth discussing marriages of convenience was a stark reminder of how deeply entrenched in Gondorian society she had become. For a moment, Éomund's daughter imagined her in a circle of Arwen's handmaidens, listening to their cruel gossip and tittering at all the right moments.

She tried to erase this uncharitable impression—she was the one supposed to be making amends to Haiweth, and renewing old arguments would only hurt her cause. What she needed to be was patient and understanding, as Legolas had been with her.

"Cobryn and I have considered marriage before," she said, "and believe me, the ability to make our home in Rohan—as well as his relationship with you and Hammel—were prospects not easily dismissed."

Haiweth gasped; the latter portion of Gúthwyn's remarks seemed not to have registered. "You considered marriage? When?"

"A long time ago," Gúthwyn replied, thinking back to the days before her betrothal to Elphir, "and more recently, when I thought—when I feared I would not otherwise have children."

"And?" Haiweth prompted impatiently.

"And when Cobryn realized that it was only a misunderstanding keeping me and Legolas apart, he—well, he told me I was being an idiot. I had told him I had no future with Legolas, but that was because I thought he and Tauriel…"

Haiweth groaned. "Did you _really_ think he was in love with Tauriel instead of you?"

"I—yes, I did," Gúthwyn said, taken aback. "I overheard him talking to Gimli about a woman he loved, and I assumed it was her. Why—"

"But you must have noticed that he stopped visiting Rohan so often when we left, and he started visiting Éowyn and Faramir more frequently instead?" Haiweth asked, her voice rising with incredulity.

"I-If truth be told, it never occurred to me then," Gúthwyn said; in fact, it had not quite occurred to her until now. "I was used to him visiting, and his continuing to do so in Emyn Arnen did not seem out of the ordinary, especially since he lived nearby."

Haiweth seemed as if she were on the verge of throwing up her hands, as if she could not believe that it was possible for anyone to be so foolish; Gúthwyn imagined she and Cobryn could have had a very long conversation on the subject. In an effort to defend herself, she said, "Besides, at the time, I did not know how to love anyone other than Borogor."

Haiweth stilled; the edges in her expression softened. "And then Faramir showed you his grave."

She said it without reproach, but Gúthwyn remembered that she had promised to take the children there one day, and she never had. It was just one more way she had let them both down.

"He did," she replied, "and that helped—I realized Borogor was never coming back, and refusing to love another was only hurting me, not helping him. But when I found myself thinking about Legolas, and looking forward to his visits, I did not want to admit what that might mean. I felt—I felt so guilty—it was as if I were betraying Borogor, but also myself, after everything that had happened in Mordor. So I lashed out at anyone who dared to suggest that my relationship with Legolas was anything other than friendship. Including you, little one. You were just asking, and I became furious with you, which was wrong of me. I owe you an apology for my reaction."

Haiweth gave only the faintest of nods, and Gúthwyn saw the hurt that still lingered there, a nursing of old wounds. "I was just asking," she echoed Gúthwyn's words, "and all I wanted was for you to tell me the truth. But you never did. I know there are things you are still keeping from me, it is so obvious now that I see it."

"Haiweth—"

"You keep treating me as if I am a child," Haiweth went on, her voice rising, "even though I am old enough to be married. You never told me how Haldor died. You still will not tell me what happened with Prince Elphir. And I had to find out from Hammel that you and Legolas were getting married—and you had known for how many months? You had plenty of time to say something!"

"Haiweth, I told you, I wanted to tell you in person—"

Haiweth shook her head, as if everything Gúthwyn was saying were offensive. "You should never have let us walk into that feast without knowing."

Gúthwyn swallowed; no matter what her intentions had been that evening, Haiweth was right. "Little one—"

"Stop calling me 'little one,' I am not a child anymore," Haiweth said irritably.

Of all the words that had been exchanged during their conversation, Haiweth's rejection of the nickname she had once happily answered to hurt the most; Gúthwyn felt it as an actual physical blow. Yet with Haiweth's eyes blazing so fiercely, she had no choice but to let it go without a fight.

"Haiweth," she made an effort to correct herself, and Haiweth's eyes widened before she pressed her lips together—an acknowledgment that the argument had been ceded. "I am sorry, truly, for the hurt I caused you and your brother. And I am sorry that I have hurt you in other ways over the years by not confiding in you, when perhaps I ought to have done so. All I can say is that I have always done what I deemed best at the time to protect you and your brother, to maintain your innocence just a little longer—whether I was right or wrong, only hindsight will decide. But it was the only way I could keep you safe in Mordor."

"But we are not in Mordor," Haiweth cried, exasperated. "We have not been there for years!"

"Yet sometimes I feel as if I shall never be rid of that place."

Gúthwyn was not sure if she had spoken to Haiweth or herself, but both of them were aware of the tears that had welled up, unbidden, in her eyes.

"Gúthwyn—" Haiweth began uncertainly, but Éomund's daughter shook her head.

"What happened with Elphir is that Lothíriel and Amrothos convinced him I was a whore," she said, because if Haiweth was no longer a child, then so be it. "I do not wish to go into the details of how they accomplished this, but I trust that will suffice as an explanation."

"Queen Lothíriel?" Haiweth gasped, her expression shifting as connections were formed. "That is why King Éomer is so angry with her?"

Gúthwyn did not feel the need to confirm the obvious. "You also mentioned that I did not tell you about Haldor's death," she continued, and suddenly the room became so quiet she could hear her blood pounding in her ears.

"Hammel… Hammel said you killed him," Haiweth spoke after a moment. She looked reluctant now, almost afraid, as if she had realized she might not want to hear the truth after all.

"I did." A coppery smell filled her nostrils: his blood, spilling over her until she could barely see. When at last her vision cleared, there was Haiweth, watching her worriedly. "Do you still want to hear how it happened?"

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Haiweth nodded.

As quickly as she could, Gúthwyn gave her the necessary background: she had been sent from Mordor on a mission from Sauron; Haldor had followed her, and then he had betrayed her to Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli, making it impossible for her to take the Ring and trade it for Hammel and Haiweth's lives. It was barely a sketch of the full story, details dropped and scattered like petals on the wind, but Haiweth questioned none of it, so intent was she on hearing the end.

"Once I realized that you and your brother were as good as dead, I snapped." Gúthwyn's voice was stiff, almost wooden, as if she were reciting events that had happened to someone else. "Everything I had done in Mordor had been to keep the two of you alive, and now I had no reason to obey him anymore. So I challenged him to a duel. And I nearly lost."

The slashing, searing pain of his sword across her skin; the moment she had turned her blade upon him, and he had cowed her into submission with only his eyes. The way he had crawled on top of her, swift and sure as if a bed were beneath them, and her fingers had at last closed around the hilt of Galadriel's dagger…

"Gúthwyn?"

She glanced up, her right hand clenched into a fist. Haiweth was observing her warily, like a traveler sighting a wild dog, afraid of what the creature might do next. She had no idea how long it had been since she stopped speaking, and it took her several tries to clear her throat. "He knocked me to the ground. He pinned me down and lifted his sword to kill me. But Lady Galadriel had given me a dagger in Lothlórien, and I drove it into his face, over and over again, until he stopped moving."

Haiweth had gone pale with horror. "H-His face?"

"Everywhere but his eyes." Sometimes she wondered why, even in those final, frenzied throes, she had avoided stabbing him there. "They were still open when he died."

Haiweth shuddered, her lips contorting into a grimace. "That sounds awful."

"It was. And that is why I did not tell you when you were younger."

"I think I would have had nightmares about that," Haiweth admitted after a moment.

"I know." Gúthwyn was starting to wonder if hers would return tonight; she had not thought about Haldor's death in years, and she had always shied away from remembering specific details. But now they were flashing through her mind, unwanted, unchecked, forcing through her defenses as if there were no resistance at all. She did not think she could continue the conversation in this state—she needed to retreat somewhere until the memories were gone, where she could compose herself before she had to face Legolas again.

"Little one," she said, forgetting—but Haiweth did not correct her, nor did she protest when Gúthwyn stood and enveloped her in a tight hug. As their cheeks pressed together, Haiweth's golden curls soft and delicate against her skin, she whispered into the girl's ear, "Haldor can only hurt us now if we let him. I swear to you, I would never marry Legolas if I thought there was a chance he might hurt you. I would kill him first."

Haiweth flinched. "Gúthwyn—"

"I mean it." Gúthwyn held her tighter, willing her to understand what she could not seem to convey in words. "There is nothing I would not do to keep you safe. Nothing. I would kill for you—I _have_ killed for you—and I would do it again without a second thought, because I love you more than I could possibly explain. But one thing I do not need to do is protect you from Legolas, because he has never, _ever_ , meant you any harm."

"All right," Haiweth whispered—whether because she at last believed Gúthwyn or because she was frightened by what she was hearing, Éomund's daughter could not tell. But she stepped away all the same, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Please, think about what I have said," she urged Haiweth, and the girl nodded.

"I-I will."

Perhaps some headway had been made, Gúthwyn thought as she left Éowyn's chambers, still wiping at her eyes. But it was too soon to be certain, and meanwhile Haldor was prowling at the corners of her mind—and she knew that even when she got rid of him he would come back, as he always did.

She hurried to her room, his cold blue gaze following her every step.


End file.
